


know that i love you (but i'm still learning)

by bravestyles



Series: we were outnumbered. . . this time [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, minor descriptions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: Harry and Louis go back to Holmes Chapel to say goodbye to Harry's dying father, and Harry continues to struggle with his mental health.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: we were outnumbered. . . this time [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782544
Comments: 21
Kudos: 99





	know that i love you (but i'm still learning)

**Author's Note:**

> title: still learning by halsey

-

Harry and Louis are good -- great, even -- for two years and four months. 

It becomes easier and easier to love and be loved as Harry heals. He doesn’t realize how guarded he can still be with Louis sometimes until he takes down those walls, and he doesn’t fully understand how much weight he’s been carrying until it gradually starts to disappear. Feeling like you’re always one step behind isn’t normal. Neither is waiting for everyone to leave you, thinking it’s going to eventually happen no matter what. He learns these things, from therapy and from life in general. It’s like he has been taught all those lessons in his late twenties that you’re supposed to learn as a kid; right vs. wrong, self-respect, boundaries, effective communication, how to trust. He’s found so many of the things he was neglected as a child, and even though he’s already twenty-nine, he has accepted that it’s never too late to change. 

It’s not always good. Louis and Harry fight, and work gets stressful, and his mum always calls even though he doesn’t really want to speak with her. He has bad days and weeks and months. Sometimes the medication he’s put on is hard to adjust to, leaving him nauseous and sad. Sometimes his anxiety gets so bad that it ruins things, just like it always has; last time they went to Louis’ mum’s house for a weekend, they had to go home after a day because Harry was completely spiraling and they didn’t know how else to stop it. 

The good easily outweighs the bad, though. For the first time in his entire life, he can say that. And because he’s dealt with so much bad, he’s always more appreciative of the good, which makes it even better. 

Those two years and four months are spent nurturing and creating his passion for life and everything that comes with it. He starts to feel invincible, which is probably why it hurts so badly when he’s reminded that a little bit of healing doesn’t compare to the amount of hurt still built up within him. 

It all starts to crumble in Holmes Chapel. Afterwards, when the ground swallows Harry up whole and spits him out the other side, it almost makes sense.

-

The front door chimes, signaling someone has walked into the shop, when Harry's in the back trying to find more light blue ribbons. He swore he had some left over from when he cut them yesterday, and now he can't find any and he has to add a few of them to some of the bouquets he's preparing. After one last glance at the counters, he gives up and heads back to the front desk. He's the only one working today, since it's usually slow on Tuesdays and Anna is out for a few days as she visits her brother in Glasgow. 

He finds Louis quickly, considering he's the only other person in the shop right now. He's browsing the section of greeting cards near the front in the coat he stole from Harry last winter. He looks tired. _Is_ tired. He's been working a lot since Christmas, and Harry's been around him long enough now to know that it's because he spent a bunch of money on his siblings for the holidays and, as a product from growing up in a poor household, feels guilty for it now and he's trying to make up for it. 

Louis notices him looking before Harry wants him to, and he smiles at him. "Hey," Louis says, coming to the counter. Harry leans forward to kiss him, and when Louis pulls back, he presses an extra kiss to Harry's jaw. He's good like that. "Slow day?"

Harry nods. "Are you on your lunch break?"

"Yeah. Just wanted to get out of that hospital for a bit."

"Fair enough. You want to help me cut ribbon?"

Louis makes a face and then shrugs. "Yeah, sure." He circles around the counter and follows Harry to the back, and Harry cuts more blue ribbon as he listens to Louis talk about his day so far. Apparently, there was a young boy in the ICU for a gunshot wound. Louis sounds torn up about it, so Harry doesn't interrupt his thoughts. He's alive, for now. Louis' not sure it'll be that way by the time he gets back to work. 

Harry organizes flowers for a living, and Louis deals with sick people dying all day. Harry doesn't know how he does it. He'd never be able to scrub those images off the back of his eyelids. 

Before Louis has to leave, he wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders and kisses the side of his neck. "You didn't answer my text earlier."

"Sorry. I haven't been on my phone much today."

"Good," Louis says, and he sounds off, kind of like he did while he was speaking about the boy at the hospital. "Do me a favor and keep it that way, yeah?"

Harry tries to pull back from Louis, confused, but Louis strengthens his hold on Harry. Harry squeezes his hip. "Is everything okay? Is it my mum?"

"Everything's fine right now. Just, please don't check your phone until I get home. I'm getting off early, I'll be home before you are."

"Lou -- "

Louis shakes his head. "Don't worry. Everything's fine. I just don't want you thinking about it while you're at work."

"Okay," Harry says quietly. He'll have to trust Louis, because there's no reason not to. Louis knows how to care for him and look out for him better than anybody else. 

Louis leaves, and the weight of Harry's phone in his back pocket has never felt heavier.

-

He checks his messages as he walks from the car to their flat, and he knows why Louis didn't want him thinking about it at work. It makes a lot of sense to him, so he doesn't know why it wouldn't occur to Gemma that that's not the type of news you send someone over text. 

_Hey, Dad's sick. Liver failure. I guess he's on his last leg, basically. Mum is making it out to be a smaller deal than it is, but I've spoken to Dad and his doctor said he's dying. They want us to visit. Both of us. Sometime next week, if possible. Louis can come around too, Mum said it'd be fine. We'll stay a few days and then go home. It's just a few days. It'll be fine._

Harry always thought he'd be relieved to find out his father is dying, and he is, although that relief is hidden under absolute terror. The idea of going home ' _just_ a few days' is his worst nightmare. He can't do that. He can't. He doesn't care if he doesn't get to say goodbye to his dad; Harry wouldn't know what to say, anyway. He doesn't want to say goodbye. His dad doesn't deserve one from him. 

He's angry, too, because Gemma handled that all wrong. He didn't want to find that out over text. And she's pretending like it'll be painless, _just a few days, it'll be fine_. She adds in that Louis can come along, like that helps anything. It doesn't. Harry doesn't want him in that environment. It was always easier for her, always. He sometimes doubts she's at all bothered about what happened to them as children, but he knows she is. Just not to the extent that he is. 

"I'm not going," is the first thing that Harry says to Louis when he walks in the door. He shrugs off his jacket, hastily puts it on the hook, gives their cat Dwight one lame pat, and then looks back to Louis. "I'm not going."

Louis sighs quietly and looks down. He pushes the blanket off his lap and stands. "I didn't want you torn up about it all day at work, love."

"I wasn't. I just read it. But I'm not going, so it doesn't even matter."

He is going. He knows he is. It's not really a choice. If he doesn't come, his father will get mad, and then he's putting not only his mum in danger, but his sister as well. He has to go, so there's no point in gripping onto denial as tight as he's trying to. 

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Louis says, coming to him. He sets his hands on Harry's cheeks, cradling his face, and Harry grips his wrists. "But if you do decide to go, I'll be there with you."

Harry shakes his head. "I don't want you there."

Louis looked confused. "If you're going, I'm going. That's not even a question. Steven is coming, too, and -- "

"I don't want him being mean to you," Harry says, shaking his head again. "Gemma shouldn't let Steven come, either. I don't know why she thinks that's a good idea."

"He was never mean to me as a kid," Louis says, "and having other people there will put a barrier between you and him. He's pissed at you, and now you're an adult. Lord only knows how he thinks he'll be able to treat you now. I want to be there."

Tears burn his eyes, and every ounce of fear he's managed to bury is crawling up his throat, suffocating him. He thought he'd never have to worry about this again. He thought he'd never have to be a scared kid in that house again. It feels like a punishment for something. And bringing Louis will provide him with some comfort, it will. But his father is dangerous. If something were to happen, even if it's as small as him saying something offensive to Louis, Harry would feel guilty as all hell. 

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Louis whispers, and Harry closes his eyes, hating how selfish that makes him feel. Is it selfish, though? As far as he knows, the worst things that his father did were always to Harry. He's the only one who got the belt buckle, and he's the only one who got the life-threatening concussions, and he's the only one who got the broken bones. His mum got shoved and slapped, but that’s nothing compared to what Harry went through. And that’s -- he’s so mad that he even has to think about this. He feels so wronged that he even has to try to compare the differences between their abuse. 

His father abused him and hated him and made his life a living hell, and yet Harry will always feel more betrayed by his mum. He never had any sort of healthy relationship with his father, never had any redeeming qualities in his eyes, but his mum -- she was the only one who he could count on to protect him. She was the only one left. And she made him stay there and then turned around and made him feel guilty for wanting to leave. He shouldn’t have had to leave; he was in no position to take care of himself at eighteen, wasn’t ready for it at all, and he was practically forced out of his home anyway. His mum should have left him and got the three of them a new home long before that. 

It baffles him sometimes, how some people get so torn up about their parents divorcing when that’s all he wanted his to do. 

"Love, you'll be safe,” Louis says, promising something he isn’t able to keep. “You have me and Gemma and Steven ready to protect you. And you've got yourself now, okay? You do whatever it is you have to do to defend yourself. I mean, we don't -- we shouldn't assume he's going to try anything, but if he does, no matter how small, you have back up. He's not going to get away with any of that shit anymore."

That soothes Harry, it does, so he doesn't know why the tears decide to rush out now, but they do. They come hot and fast and in bulk, and he lets out a soft sob as he pulls away Louis' hands so he can press his face against Louis' shoulder. Louis hugs him tightly, and Harry doesn't mean to dig his fingers into Louis' hips, but he can't seem to stop. 

"It's okay, baby, you're alright," Louis keeps saying, and that's the problem: Harry's fine right now. He's not in any danger whatsoever, and yet he's crying. He's become soft. How is he supposed to manage a few days in an intense, threatening atmosphere? He won't be able to. And tears always, always made his dad see red. 

-

They adopted Dwight a little over a year ago. 

It was Louis who brought it up first. One day, he randomly informed Harry that he checked their apartment complex’s website and cats were allowed. Only one, and it’d up the rent, but Louis said he didn’t ‘mind. And Harry was so fucking estatic by the idea that he doesn’t really know how he ended up putting it off for a few months. 

He was going through a rough few weeks, nothing too bad, and he turned to Louis one night and half-joking, half-being completely serious and said, “We should totally go to the animal shelter tomorrow since you’re off work and get a cat.”

And, well. That’s what they did. Dwight was the first cat they saw -- _literally_ the first one -- because it was too sad to walk through the rest of the cages and look at all the animals who wouldn’t be getting a home today. He didn’t want to remember the faces of any sad cats, so they picked Dwight. Thank God he’s an angel, because that definitely wasn’t the best course of action. They could have ended up with a devil cat who liked to bite their toes or peed on their clothes or something equally as irritating. 

Dwight had no problem making their flat his, and Harry and Louis had no problem letting it happen. He has three cat beds (each time Harry bought a new one, he was convinced that it’d be the one Dwight finally liked), and too many toys. They have a few too many boxes in their closet they’re saving for Dwight, too. And whenever Harry gets a little sad, and admittedly when he’s just a little bored, he goes online and buys another cat toy or new brand of cat treats, and trying it out with Dwight always puts him in a better mood. 

Dwight is also one of those cats that’ll stay with you if you’re crying, which Harry appreciates so, _so_ much, especially when Louis’ not around. Dwight has become their little best friend, and coming home to see him makes him happier than he should probably admit. 

-

Days pass by. Anna gets back in from Glasgow, and she tells Harry about all the fun she had with her brother. More days pass, and Louis packs bags for the both of them because Harry's not been feeling well and he wants him to relax. 'Not feeling well' means constantly feeling like he's trying to catch his breath and failing miserably, feeling like his brain is overstuffed, and wanting to cry the majority of the day. Stress is a killer, and Louis' trying to slow its pace. 

It's not like Harry's anxiety medication has stopped helping, except that it has, kind of. It frustrates Harry beyond belief; they've been working fine for almost two years, and now when he needs them to do their fucking job the most, they don't. Louis says it's because the amount of his anxiety he's feeling now is much more severe than probably anything he's felt in a long time, and Harry says that doesn't make any sense even though it kind of does. 

His antidepressants seem to be working fine still, which is helpful. He couldn't handle feeling any more mentally drained. 

Days pass, and then Friday's tomorrow. Friday is day one of three. They'll be in Holmes Chapel Friday morning, and they'll leave Sunday. What time Sunday depends on how the first two days go. 

A few years ago, Gemma suggested that Harry shouldn't go home, that too much vicious anger would be directed his way, and now he's going there with her for three days. It feels like a trap, or something. Like he’s being set up to fail.

"I wish we dropped off Dwight before we left tomorrow," Harry whispers into the dark. They're curled up in bed, and he's not used to not having Dwight somewhere in the bed with them. "Miss him."

"I know, love. I'm sure he misses us, too."

He's staying with Liam while Louis and Harry are out of town. Liam's not much of a cat person, and he has dogs that Dwight isn't used to, but Liam's also the one who offered, so Harry's confident it'll work out. He doesn't have to be happy about it right now, though. He misses his cat. 

"You're thinking too loud," Louis whispers against his neck, and Harry runs his thumb over Louis' knuckles. He doesn't want Louis to be so worried about him, although he's grateful for it. It's nice to have someone who understands him so well. Sometimes it feels like Louis' another vessel for his anxiety, and that Harry doesn't have to hold it all himself anymore.

"I think I'm gonna get up and smoke for a bit," Harry whispers. As he says it, his eyes slip shut. He's not tired, though. Not physically, anyway. 

Louis nods. "Okay. You can do it inside, if you want. Since Dwight's not here."

"No, it's fine. I can go outside."

Louis sounds hesitant as he says, "I don't want you standing outside at two in the morning. You'll probably be at it a while, too, so just -- please do it inside."

"Okay," he agrees, slipping out of Louis' arms gently. He turns around and presses a kiss to Louis' hand that fell on Harry's side of the bed. "I'll only be up for a bit more. Just sleep without me."

He doesn't get too stoned. Won't let himself, not when he's going home tomorrow. He needs to be completely observant and ready for whatever is going to come tomorrow; he can't have a cloudy head. He smokes in the kitchen because he somehow convinces himself that the smell won't stick around as much there, and the tiles make his feet cold and the edge of the counter digging into his back hurts. 

He stays there for about an hour, and then he showers and changes clothes and gets back into bed. Louis wakes up when Harry lies down, and he runs his hands through Harry's damp hair and frowns at him. 

"You didn't have to shower," he says, voice croaky.

Harry shrugs and presses close to Louis. "You don't like the smell. It's fine."

"You feel better, at least?"

Harry nods. "Yeah. A bit. I'll be able to sleep now, I think."

And he is able to, although it doesn't do him much good because their alarms go off four hours later. They'll get into Holmes Chapel a little before eleven. His father wanted them there sooner, but Harry didn't budge. He still hasn't talked to him; he's been getting everything from Gemma or texts from his mum. 

He has a stupid fucking panic attack while Louis' making breakfast, and it's bad, because of course it is. Nothing can be easy. Louis helps him through it and it ends quicker than either of them expected it to, but it leaves Harry feeling frail and scared and shaky. He can't stomach much breakfast, and they leave about fifteen minutes after when Harry's sure he's not going to throw up. 

Harry offers to drive, and Louis laughs.

They stop for coffee ten minutes in, which is probably a bad idea because it makes Harry feel like he might puke again, but he drinks it anyway because he'll need the energy later on. 

"How are you feeling?" Louis asks, a half hour later. "You don't look great."

Harry's sitting curled up in the passenger side, head pressed against the window and eyes shut tight. He forces himself to look at Louis, to give him some sign of life right now. "A little lightheaded, but I'm okay."

"You're shaking."

Harry crosses his arms and hides his hands in his armpits. "Just a bit. It's okay." He closes his eyes again, and Louis squeezes his knee. His hand lingers for a bit, and Harry concentrates on the feeling of it for as long as he can. Eventually, he falls asleep.

-

When they finally get there, when they’re finally parked in the driveway of his childhood home, Harry sits still for a few moments. It's just a house, he keeps telling himself. There's nothing scary about the house itself. There's no need to stare at the windows like they're about to explode, or to eye the dead weeds in the garden like they're about to sprout back to life and come for him. It's a house. What's in it is the scary part. 

"Mum never did care about the garden during winter," Harry mumbles, feeling numb. There had been so many fights about the garden. She didn't do it well enough, or she missed some weeds, or she let them grow out too long, or she let them die. There was always a fight about it, and his mum didn't care enough about anything to try and prevent it, so Harry eventually started aiding to the garden himself. He got screamed at for not doing it right, too, but he always, _always_ listened carefully to the critiques and tried to keep them in mind for next time. 

Louis doesn't say anything, and Harry's kind of glad for that. 

Harry's the first to make a move to get out of the car, and he forces himself not to be stupid and to walk up to the door and knock like a normal human being. If his father sees he's nervous, he'll eat him alive, and he can't -- being anxious right now isn't an option. His survival instincts have taken over, and his mind is in a rush to try and get the walls back up in his head. Louis has to almost jog to catch up to him, and he sets a steadying hand on his hip that Harry wants to shake off. He doesn't want his dad to see that, for no real reason. His father doesn't care that Louis' coming, according to his mum, and he's never cared that Harry's not strictly straight. It's not like Harry ever came out to him, to either of them, but he knows that his mum has told him, and if his mother is being truthful, his dad didn't care. His father grew up with a pair of gay aunts, maybe that's why he's not homophobic. 

His mum is the one who answers the door. She looks the same as usual -- dark hair, pale face, tired, a cardigan draped on her shoulders -- but older. Anne gives him a smile, one that makes Harry irritated for no reason at all. "Hi, baby," she says, reaching forward and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She pulls him closer, and he stumbles a bit. He hugs her back, but mostly for appearances. 

It's not like he doesn't love his mum, he does. He loves her like mad. But he severed that part of his brain, told himself that he had to accept not having her in his life if he didn't want his dad to have any part in it either. It sounds cold now, but he can't care. He can't. 

He realizes that he wasn’t scared to see her. He hasn’t seen her in person since he moved out. That warrants some type of uncertainty, right? When he had to see Gemma for the first time, he was bricking it. It’s probably because he’s too preoccupied about his father, but still. It feels a little wrong to him. 

"Gemma and your father are in the basement," she says, pulling away from him. There are tears in her eyes, and Harry wants to ask her why. Why is she about to cry? It doesn't seem fair. "He's showing her his coin collection. You know how he is with that thing." She laughs, sounding a little breathless, and turns to Louis. They hug briefly, and then his mum is talking about something that Harry doesn't know anything about, something about some new program starting at Louis' hospital. It's not like he's annoyed that he doesn't know about it, it's that his mum does. Harry's told Louis multiple times that he doesn't mind that he still calls her, but he kind of does. 

He waits for a short pause to ask, "Where's Steven?"

Anne blinks at him. "At home, with Natalie." She sounds confused, and Harry exchanges a knowing glance with Louis. Steven's not coming, and he never was, and Gemma lied about that to get him here. 

Harry just nods stiffly. He takes off his shoes at the door, and he makes sure they're lined up neatly next to Gemma's. They're like trained dogs. He and her both are going to follow the exact same meticulous rules they were given -- no, that they _learned_ through trial and error; there were never set rules, only set punishments -- as children. And what's worse is that Louis' going to kill himself to try and keep up, fearful that he's going to get Harry in trouble.

As Louis takes off his shoes, too, Harry sits down at the couch near the window. The whole living room is set up the same. Same couch, same coffee table, same carpet. Same stains. He can feel that his jaw is clenched, and he is probably glaring, and he doesn't mean to be such a twat but this weekend is going to fucking suck, and he's already mad at Gemma for fucking lying to him, and it's just -- he's not going to play nice with his mum, not when he doesn't have to. He'll fake happy in front of his dad, but his dad isn't upstairs right now, so there's no point. 

"How bad is it?" Louis asks quietly. He's talking to Anne, who's looking at Harry sadly. He's crushing her heart, and even though he knows that, it's hard to have sympathy for that when she put him through so fucking much. "Mike's liver failure, I mean. How bad is it?"

"He's going to die, if that's what you're asking." She sighs softly and frowns, and Harry has to look away. After everything, she still loves him. That's insane. "I don't know how long he has. The doctors change their minds every time he goes in."

"Is he on any medication?"

"Yeah, but you know Mike." She smiles thinly. "He doesn't believe in doctors."

"So he's not taking it?"

Harry doesn't understand why Louis cares. 

"No," his mum says. "No, he's not. Not most days, anyway. And he’s still drinking, so."

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs make everyone quiet down. Harry's chest tightens and he sits back further against the couch, and Louis comes to sit next to him. Either Mike is going to pretend like nothing happened and everything's fine, or he's going to immediately get angry at Harry. Harry doesn't know which is worse. 

His heart is hammering in his chest and he feels lightheaded as the footsteps land on the kitchen tile, and he's squeezing his hands together painfully tight when Gemma and their father come through the doorway. He's laughing about something and Gemma is playing along; it's so obvious to Harry, how fake her laugh is, yet Mike is completely oblivious. 

Their voices stop when they see Harry and Louis sitting there. Harry, really. He's the one everyone's unsure about, the loose cannon in this situation when that's not fair because their father is the fucking _epitome_ of a loose cannon. Mike's smile falls, and then everyone's just staring at Harry. Harry swallows thickly. 

It's a game. Already, his father is playing games with him. He's not going to be the one to speak first, he wants Harry to, wants Harry to fill the awkward silence. It'll give his father the upper hand, will give him the assurance that he still has power over Harry, and Harry falls right into it because he doesn't want any confrontation this early on. 

"Hey, Dad."

His voice shakes, and then he tenses. Already, he is losing his ground here. Already, he's showing weakness. He wants to cry. 

"Hey, son."

This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't ever supposed to happen. Harry had no reason to come back here. He should have let himself be selfish, he should have just stayed in London and let Gemma and Anne figure it out on their own. Gemma, the one who lied to him about Steven and left him alone in this house to receive the worst beatings he ever got. And his mum, God. His mum had been selfish her entire life. Harry should've stayed in fucking London, he's not built for this. He was never supposed to come back. 

"Aren't you going to give your old man a hug?" He sounds so fucking. . . so fucking _smug,_ or something. Underneath the panic, Harry can work out that actually, no, he sounds normal, but it's -- his voice. Harry hadn't realized until now how much his voice got underneath his skin. 

Harry forces himself to let out a shaky laugh and stands. Louis tenses and leans forward instinctively, trying not to let too much space between Harry and Louis grow. Gemma appears to be holding her breath. Anne looks away. The hug is uncomfortable and stiff, and it lasts maybe five seconds before Harry has to pull away. 

For a moment, he thinks it'll be enough to irritate his father, but Mike is smiling and pats his shoulder. "Good to see you again, Harry."

Harry nods and retreats back to spot next to Louis. 

-

Mike does look sick. 

It's not like Harry thought he was faking, or something, it's just. . . odd. He's never seen his father deathly ill before. Ill, yes. Hungover, yes. Blackout drunk, sure. But those always got better, he always healed. He's not going to heal this time, and it shows. He keeps saying he feels sick, and he clutches at the right side of his abdomen a few times throughout the night, and he gets nauseous after dinner. His skin has a yellow tint to it. He's not going to be able to come back from this. 

To be sure of it, to try to avoid getting his hopes up too high if they shouldn't be, he goes off to the bathroom sometime during the night and does some research on his phone. Mike is fucked. That's what the internet has to say, anyway. He's going to die, and it's going to be slow and drawn-out, most likely. Or not. Some sites it'll be quick. But all the sites say he's going to die, and probably soon, and Harry's so, so relieved. 

It doesn't make him a bad person. It doesn't. The notion that you have to love someone unconditionally simply because they share your DNA is wrong. Whoever said that didn’t have a toxic person in their life. He doesn't love his father, he hates him, and he's glad he's dying. He's so fucking glad. The only thing that'd make it better is if Harry didn't have to be here right now, if he just got a call -- or a text, he doesn't care -- from Gemma saying that Dad croaked in the middle of the night. That'd be the best-case scenario, and he didn't get that, but he will. He will soon enough.

-

Dinner is the most exhausting, tense situation Harry's ever gone through. That's a lie, but it feels very true at the time. 

Mike talks the majority of the time, just like how it used to be. He tells stories they've all heard before, usually about his childhood or his time in high school, and they all laugh and nod and smile, and it's tiring. Harry doesn't know how he used to do this every night. He also doesn't know how his father hasn't gotten any more exciting stories in the last ten years. 

Twice during the night do things get dicey. The first time is when Anne checks her phone one too many times and Mike starts ranting about how she's never off that damn thing, and Harry rushes to find Louis' hand under the table. Louis squeezes his hand hard, and Harry tries to ignore what's happening and eat his dinner because he knows if he intervenes, it'll only get worse. 

Louis knows that, too, so Harry doesn't understand why Gemma can't keep her mouth shut, too. She never has been good at preventing arguments. She tries to tell Mike that their mum was only checking her for a second, and he scoffs loudly and starts to go on and on about how of course she thinks he's the bad guy, and Harry nearly crushes Louis' hand when Anne snaps, "Do you really have to act like this when the kids are here?"

Harry wants to scream at her, to tell her to shut the fuck up, that reasoning with him has never worked and that she's just going to make it worse. He doesn't understand how she's not scared of him, doesn't get how she hasn't learned where the landmines are yet. He braces himself for the yelling to get louder, for Mike to absolutely lose it, and he doesn't. He doesn't. He just scoffs and shakes his head and goes back to his plate. 

Harry lets out an audible sigh of relief, and Louis presses a small, quick kiss to his shoulder. 

The second time is when they're all sitting in the living room, talking. It's mostly Louis, Gemma and Mike conversing while Harry and Anne stay quiet. Harry because he's too scared to say the wrong thing, and Anne because she kept getting ignored by Mike or brushed off. 

Things are fine for about a half hour, and then Mike says, "Why are you being so quiet over there? You shy or something?" 

Harry's head whips up so fast that it sends a twinge of pain down his neck. He eyes him carefully, already so scared. The fear always settles in so quickly. Mike doesn't look that mad, just a bit annoyed, so Harry tries to save it and lets out a small laugh. "Just tired, is all. Sorry."

"We got up really early," Louis says politely, trying to keep the peace as well. 

Mike snorts, rolling his eyes, before changing the topic, and Harry finds himself frantically trying to jump into the conversation, and he can't. Either he can't bring himself to, or he can't string together words that won't make his dad upset quick enough, and Harry feels winded within a few minutes. 

Louis must notice, because he says, "I think me and Harry are going to head to bed," and Harry nearly cries because that's just going to make Mike angrier, fucking hell. 

"It's only nine," Mike says evenly, and Harry is glaring daggers at the side of Louis' head, begging him silently to leave it. 

He doesn't. "We're a bit knackered. We'll be able to stay up later tomorrow night, I think."

Mike nods slowly, though he looks pissed. Louis opens his mouth to say something else, and Harry quickly hisses, "Louis, shut the fuck up," underneath his breath, and Louis listens.

"Well, goodnight, sweetie," Anne says. "Come and give me a hug, please."

Harry nods and stands. He gives her a quick hug, and then after thinking over it, he gives one to his dad, too. It'll probably soften his anger. Probably. Hopefully. Either way, it's brief and then Harry and Louis are practically rushing to his room. When they get there, they shut the door, and then let out a deep breath. 

"Are you pissed at me?" Louis asks, voice quiet. He's staring at Harry with wide, guilty eyes. 

Harry slowly shakes his head. "No. I mean, please don't do it again, please just let me handle him, but no. It got us out of there, didn't it?"

Louis nods once, and then he comes closer and wraps him up in a hug. An actual, genuine, feel-good hug, unlike the ones he's been giving all day. Harry melts into him, and Louis whispers things so softly against his ear that Harry can't even make the words out, but it comforts him anyway. He clutches onto Louis, letting him draw the stress out as much as possible. Tears start to well in his eyes, so he closes them and hunches down to set his head on Louis' shoulder, breathing him in deeply. 

"Let's get into some pajamas, yeah?" Louis says, voice hushed, still talking right into his ear. Harry nods and is about to pull back from Louis when Louis gets his hands on the bottom of Harry's jumper and helps him take it off. He does it slowly, as if not to hurt him, and Harry tries his best to let himself let go of everything and focus entirely on Louis. 

Louis keeps Harry close by as he shuffles over to their bags. Harry feels so far removed from everything as he watches Louis pull out a baggy t-shirt from his own bag, one that'll be big enough to fit Harry comfortably. That's a relatively new thing, feeling disconnected from the world. He's mentioned it to Louis a few times, and Louis wants him to talk to his therapist about it, but he doesn't see the point in that. He doesn't mind drifting from reality occasionally. It doesn't happen often enough to be a problem to him. Louis also wants him to ask Holly if there’s a chance that he has Borderline Personality disorder, which caused a small fight between them before. Harry didn’t think it was fair for Louis to try to diagnose him, and Louis rushed to tell him that he was reading up on it for a patient he was treating and couldn’t help but connect the dots. Harry never took it to Holly, and Louis didn’t bring it up again. 

Louis continues to help him get undressed and into some comfier clothes, and when Harry's sitting on the bed, smoothing this thumbs over Louis' hip bones with his head pressed against Louis' chest and Louis' hands running through his hair, he feels more loved than he ever has before, he's pretty sure. Louis is doing such tiny little things to try and make him feel better, even when they're probably an inconvenience to him. It means the world to Harry that Louis even knows to do these things, knows that Harry loves to be taken care of like this. And he's being so soft and slow in a time where everything else feels the exact opposite. He's being the thing that grounds Harry in the midst of all this chaos. 

"Take your meds so we can lay down, okay?"

Harry nods and does as he's told. He takes his antidepressants and sleeping pill before sitting back down on the bed. He takes his anxiety pill in the morning because sometimes it makes him a little jittery, which seems backwards to Harry, but whatever. Holly had offered to try and get him on some combination where he wouldn't have to be taking three pills a day, but Harry had a hard time getting adjusted to his antidepressant in the first place, and he didn't want to mess with the balance his body has created. 

Getting comfortable in Harry's cramped twin-sized bed isn't actually all that hard. Harry usually lays curled up, anyway, and Louis plasters himself to Harry's back and tucks his knees behind his. It is odd, though, being back here. In this room. He hasn't really taken a look around, mostly because he knows that whatever that was left here is going to be useless to him now. 

"Today wasn't so bad," Louis whispers, almost hesitantly. He's probably worried Harry's going to snap at him, which sucks but is also not far from the truth. Harry knows he's been short today, with everyone. Being that way to everyone else seems justified, but Louis hasn't done anything wrong. He doesn't need to take any heat from Harry, especially when he's somewhere he doesn't have to or want to be. 

"Not really, no," Harry agrees. It felt torturous and stressful, although it could've gone worse. It could've gone a lot worse. He adjusts his arm on top of Louis' so it's firmer against him. "Wish Gemma hadn't lied to me about Steven, though."

Louis sighs quietly. "Yeah, me too."

"There was no point to. I would've come anyway. I didn't really have a choice."

Louis mumbles a small, "Yeah," against his shoulder, and a quiet drapes over them. They can still hear the muffled voices of Harry's family from the living room, which serves as a reminder that it's not just them. They aren't in their safe, little bubble back home in London with Dwight curled up by their feet. 

He's still mad at her, but he does feel bad for Gemma. She doesn't want to be here, either, not when her toddler and boyfriend are barely a half hour away. Harry has visited Natalie in person only five times so far, and always after Harry and Louis visited Louis' family for a holiday. He wishes he could see her more, he really does, but it's not practical. He's not willing to drag Louis three and a half hours away for a quick visit with his niece, and he's still not comfortable coming here by himself yet. He was planning on stopping by for a bit on Sunday to see her, but now he doesn't know if he wants to. Not even because Gemma lied to him, he just. . . He doesn't want to spend another minute in Holmes Chapel after he leaves his parents' house. 

-

The majority of Saturday is spent dodging arguments and feeling the tension get more and more suffocating until it explodes at dinner. And, of course, Harry's the one who gets caught in the middle of it. It's so fucking unfair; all day he was trying his hardest to keep Mike calm and happy. 

There's no point in trying to do that when Mike is hellbent on finding something to get mad about, though. Harry was wasting his energy. Every time he smoothed over one thing, Mike was turning around to find a problem with something else. 

As soon as Harry and Louis sit down at the dining table with their plates, Mike's focus lasers in on them. Harry can feel it, can feel that he's going to try to pick a fight with him, and he keeps his head down as much as he can, trying to avoid it. 

It doesn't work. 

"So, Harry," his father says. Harry chances a look up, and Mike is looking at his plate. "Your mother tells me you work at some -- some flower shop, or something. What's that about?"

Harry shrugs jerkily and clears his throat. "Um, I don't know. I started working there a few years ago, and, uh. I'm assistant manager now. Make decent money." He shrugs again. Louis squeezes his knee underneath the table. 

Mike makes a noise too mean to be described as a laugh and says, "Assistant manager, nurse. Neither one of you boys could quite make it to the top, huh? Perfect for each other."

It's a joke. It's mean and untrue and offensive, but it's a joke. He's not making any digs. Intentionally, anyway. So Harry just lets out a small laugh and glances down, trying to ignore the fact that that's the same low blow Oli gave to Louis the first time they met. 

"Nurses work just as hard as doctors do," Anne says, and Harry briefly closes his eyes. She should've let it go. She should have taken it as a joke and ignored it. 

Mike scoffs. "Yeah? Then how come their paychecks don't say the same thing?"

"Louis makes plenty good money," Gemma argues, and this is what always made Harry feel crazy as a child. He always tried so, so hard to be careful, tried so hard to do and say the right thing, and yet his mum and sister didn't care. It doesn't seem like they do, anyway. They aren't scared of Mike in the same way that Harry is. It's like they live in different universes. 

"It's fine," Harry says slowly, glaring at Gemma and Anne. It's not misplaced anger. He has a right to be mad at them. Mike is barely human, and that means he can't comprehend regular emotions, but Gemma and Anne -- they should know better. They should be well-practiced in this by now. Harry gave up trying to control his father, but the very least he can do is try and keep Gemma and Anne in check in hopes that they don't piss him off any more. 

"Them talking like that to me is fine to you?" Mike snaps at Harry. Harry looks at him with tears welling in his eyes, because what the fuck. He's _trying._ He's always tried so hard. "I'm dying, and -- "

"Jesus, Mike," his mum sighs, shaking his head. "We're trying to eat dinner."

Harry feels powerless as he watches his father get angrier and angrier. He starts really going in on Anne, then, and Harry watches, feeling breathless. Louis scoots closer to him and wraps his arm around his lower back, and he leans down to press a kiss to Harry's shoulder. 

Mike turns back to Harry. "What are you crying about?" Mike nearly shouts, and Harry doesn't say anything but his lips tremble anyway. He's not crying. Not yet, anyway. "This is a fucking joke," Mike says, standing up. He grabs his plate roughly and walks over to the sink, and then he tosses his plate in the sink. The noise of it shattering makes them all jump. 

It was always this quick to escalate when he was younger, too. And this is usually the time that Harry got hit or shoved or punched. Mike curses under his breath and stalks towards the doorway, where Harry's sitting closest to. Heart pounding, Harry sets his head on his hand, elbow resting against the table. He doesn't want to look anymore. 

When Mike wraps his arm around Harry's forearm and tugs harshly, Harry has the guts to pull away from it. As a flash of anger settles on his father's face, Louis stands, probably glaring, and puts a firm hand on Harry's shoulder. 

"I'm glad I'm fucking dying," Mike spits, like that hurts any of them in anyway. It doesn't. They're all glad, too. He never quite understood that he wasn't loved by them. "I won't have to deal with this fucking family anymore." He leaves the room, and none of them say anything until a door slams, probably to his parents' bedroom.

Anne's the first one to speak as Louis sinks back down to his chair, his hand still firm on Harry's shoulder. "I don't understand. We were all talking -- he was fine a second ago."

She's delusional. She's always been so fucking delusional. 

"He's been being an asshole all day," Gemma mumbles, stabbing something on her plate with a fork. She sighs loudly. "Harry didn't even do anything wrong."

He's trembling, and tears are moments away from flooding, and he wants to leave. He wants to get in Louis' car and drive back home to London tonight. Fuck this. He doesn't fucking need this. Doesn't need them all staring at him like how they are. 

"He's never done anything wrong," Louis whispers, saying exactly what Harry's thinking underneath all the panic. There was rarely ever a time that Harry got something he deserved. 

"You could leave him," Harry says, and he barely processes that he's the one talking. He's so overwhelmed right now and nothing that bad even happened. Anne looks to him, confused, and Gemma glances away with a sigh. She knows that anything Harry's about to say is pointless. "I'm serious, Mum. You could leave him. You could -- now, we could just go."

She shakes her head once and glances down. "You know I can't."

"You can," Harry says hurriedly. "You -- you literally can. He can't do anything to stop you, not when there's three of us here. He's dying, he can't -- he's not strong enough to stop you. You can come stay with me and Louis in London, if you want, or with Gemma, or literally anywhere else. You just -- you don't need to stay here anymore."

He's begging, and he's not even ashamed of it. She needs to leave him. She needs to. And she can now, if she really wanted to. Before, maybe she was right. Maybe it _was_ too dangerous. She had two kids and he had his strength. But that's not true anymore. If she stays, it's because she wants to. And she must know that, too, and that's why she won't say anything to him right now. 

" _Mum,_ " he pleads, his voice cracking. 

She glares at him, eyes sharp. "What do you want me to do, Harry? He's _dying._ "

"Let him die knowing how much he fucked everything up. He doesn't deserve to die with you still sitting by his side, choosing him over us."

She looks furious. "I never -- "

"You didn't leave him when I was three and he hit me," Harry snaps, cutting her off. He doesn't want to hear any of her bullshit. "I was practically a baby still, and you just. . . let him. You chose him over us the second that happened and you sat back and watched."

"That is _not_ true," she shouts, her eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide. She looks like she believes that, too. But if it wasn't true, she would've packed up her kids' belongings and took them somewhere safe. If that wasn't true, she would've left any time after that, when it was clear that Mike's behavior wasn't just a one-time thing. 

Harry scoffs quietly. The anger is leaving him quickly, leaving a quiet, empty ache of sadness behind. "You enabled him. You're _still_ enabling him."

"I'm not. I've defended you kids for _years._ "

Louis and Gemma exchange a look, one that reads that they don't believe that, either. Sometimes, times like now, Harry thinks he's making things out to be a bigger deal than they really were. That what he went through as a child wasn't all that different from what others kids did, but that's not true. He knows that's not true. And having Louis and Gemma behind him in that makes him feel validated. 

"He just laid his hands on me and you didn't do anything," Harry points out. "I don't know if -- if you don't care about me at all, or if you just care about him more, but it's getting old. It's been old. I don't know how you could live a life having barely any relationship with your son and still think you're innocent."

He stands then, not because he wants to make some big dramatic exit but because he's tired of having this conversation. He doesn't know what he expected from her. Well, he does, he was hoping for some sort of apology or sympathy from her, but he doesn't know why he thought he would get it. Either she thinks Mike is a good person deep, deep down, or she's convinced herself that she needs to stay and that his love is better than none. Either way, she has chosen him over Harry. Again. 

Louis, loyal and caring as ever, immediately stands as well and follows him out to the living room. They sit down on the couch, and Louis grabs one of Harry's shaking hands and presses a kiss to his knuckles. He doesn't talk, and he doesn't ask Harry to. For a long time, they sit quietly, half-listening to the argument going on between Gemma and Anne in the kitchen. 

Eventually, Louis leans into him and says, "We can go home tonight, if you want." He drops a kiss to his shoulder and starts to run his fingers through the hairs at the back of Harry's neck. "We could get there by morning. It's up to you."

It's not, though. It's really not. He said he would stay until Sunday, and he's expected to stay until Sunday, so he's staying until Sunday. There's no question about that. He doesn't have a say. And maybe he wouldn't mind as much if they were doing what they came here to do: say goodbye to his dying dad. That's why his parents wanted him here, and they've barely talked about the fact that he's dying. Maybe they're waiting for him to sit down with his dad, to be the one to initiate that conversation, but he's not going to do that. He doesn't want to. If his father thinks he deserves a goodbye, then he needs to ask for one. Harry's not going to go out of his way to spew lies so his father can have a little bit of peace.

The last two days, all they've done is sat down together and pretended that they liked each other. They pretended like they all fit when they literally never have. Harry doesn't have a proper relationship with any of his family; yeah, he talks to Gemma a lot more than he used to, but their relationship still isn't completely off the rocks. Gemma talks to their parents sometimes, although she only talks to Mike out of necessity and Anne usually out of guilt. It's bullshit, pretending. Nobody here is stupid. 

He's upset with himself, with how easy he allowed himself to be pushed back into his old shell. He barely put up a fight. And no, it wouldn't have been smart to do it any other way, it's just -- he wishes he could say he forgot how to be this person, and he can't. The scared, submissive child is not as deeply hidden as he once hoped it was. 

After a few minutes, Louis ushers him to the bedroom so they can have the illusion of privacy and Harry can stop feeling so exposed. They stretch out in bed, and Louis sets up a movie on his laptop that Harry pretends to watch. He feels like an empty shell, scraped clean. 

Twenty minutes into the movie, Louis moves around so he's cuddled into Harry's side, and Harry instinctively puts his arms around him and folds his fingers over his hip. He feels a little squeamish -- neither of them have showered since Friday morning; Harry refuses to leave Louis by himself, and Louis is too scared to leave Harry’s side -- but he knows it's not a big deal and that Louis doesn't care if he doesn't smell like peaches. 

"Can I say something?" Louis asks quietly, running his fingers over Harry's stomach. He still has his head resting on Harry's chest, and it makes him uncomfortable that he can't see Louis' face right now. He wants to be able to read his body language. 

"Yeah," Harry says, equally as quietly. He's stupidly nervous. 

Louis sighs and sits up. Now that Harry _can_ see his face, he wishes he didn't have to. Louis looks genuinely concerned about something, and Harry doesn't want to hear it. Louis finds his hands and starts playing with his fingers idly. "I'm worried that you're going to fall back into old habits when we get back home."

Harry doesn't let himself get offended. That's a fair concern to have. Harry's never been one to be consistent with anything to do with his mental health. He hasn't relapsed with cutting in a long, long time, but -- the other things, the parts that are hard to explain, he definitely struggles with falling back on. 

"I don't know what to say besides I'll try my hardest not to," Harry tells him, and he hates how inadequate that sounds. It's just. He feels so not okay right now that he's not sure it's going to be something he can shake off when they get back to London. 

"I don't want you to crash right when we get back," Louis says. He squeezes Harry's fingers. "I don't -- I don't want to go back there. So if going home tonight will help prevent that, I think we should."

"I can't do that to my mum and Gemma."

Louis looks fierce when he says, "You're my first priority, alright? I don't care about them, not like I care about you." He sounds like he means it too, like if Harry said the word then they'd leave and he wouldn't stop driving until they were home. Harry will never get used to the feeling of being loved like this. 

"We'll leave after breakfast, okay?" Harry whispers, reaching forward to put his hand on Louis' cheek. He smooths his thumb over his cheek bone.

"Okay," Louis says, nodding. He doesn't like it. He wants to leave right now, like a twelve hour difference will change how rattled Harry gets from all this. It won't, unless something awful happens before they leave, but he doubts it will. 

Louis lays back next to him, and he seems stiffer and more tense the first time. He doesn't completely relax until maybe twenty minutes later, and then they hear Mike's voice through the door, saying something to Gemma about Natalie, and both of them freeze, breaths held. 

-

Mike apologizes to Harry about last night the following morning. Not for anything in the first eighteen years of his life, not for all the other worse shit he's done, but for grabbing his wrist last night. He covers the apology with a joke, so Harry's not sure if it really counts. He accepts it regardless, not because he wants to, but because the atmosphere in the kitchen is suffocating and he wants it to stop. 

Louis made it clear earlier that they were leaving after breakfast, almost like if he said it, Harry couldn't change his mind. He's more protective over Harry this morning, and he gets a bit terse with Anne when she asks Harry to stay for lunch. He's terrified that Harry's going to slip back down a long, dark hole, and that puts a lot of pressure on Harry because he already feels like he's halfway down it. 

As soon as Harry puts down his fork on the plate, Louis announces they're going to get going. There's some small retaliation from Anne that Louis shoots down with a glare -- Harry wants to tell him to calm down, to assure him that his brain's not going to pop if he's here for a few more minutes -- and it takes all of ten minutes to get out the door, their bags in the back and Louis in the driver seat. 

"I'm okay, Lou," Harry whispers, a little shaken with how quickly Louis wanted him out of there. It makes him paranoid; what if he didn't pick up on something that Louis did, what if he's leaving his mum and sister in danger right now? But Louis nods once and gives him a small smile. 

"I know you are," Louis says. He leans over the console for a kiss, one that Harry immediately grants him, and Louis smiles again as they pull away. "I just want to be back home. And I miss our cat."

Harry nods, feeling more settled. He leans back into the seat as Louis pulls out of the driveway. As the miles increase between home and Holmes Chapel, he swears he feels lighter. 

-

When they get back home, Harry forces himself to stay put together. 

He spends the first three days at home, recharging and trying to get his thoughts in order. He spends too much time talking and laying with Dwight, although he does force himself to go to the gym two out of three of the days. And he also makes dinner each night he's home, but that's more for Louis rather than himself. Louis' worried about him, and Harry's trying to give him every reason not to be. 

He'd be lying if he said he felt like himself, or that he doesn't wake up every morning and immediately want to go to bed because everything feels like too much. Gemma calls him on Tuesday, and he absolutely rips into her about lying about Steven. He doesn't mention that to Louis, and Gemma must not either because he doesn't hear about it afterwards. 

He goes back to work on Thursday, and he's immediately met with some overly perky teenager that he's supposed to train, and it takes everything in him to not sigh at her face. He's gotten better with people, he has. It’s just that they always leave him drained. Talking to them is exhausting. Existing around them, too. So when he has someone on his heels the entire day, asking him question after question and trying to talk to him about things besides work, it leaves him wound up and stressed by the time he gets home. 

A drink sounds nice. That's what he keeps thinking as he waits for Louis to get home. They usually have a bottle of wine in the flat, and they do, Harry checks, but he doesn't want wine. He wants a stiff drink. 

He plans on asking Louis out on an impromptu date to a pub when he gets home, but he looks exhausted, and Harry doesn't want a drink that bad. He doesn't mention it, although he does have a glass of wine and drinks half of Louis' because he doesn't want it. 

-

They do end up going out for drinks that weekend, when Louis only has to work half a day and he's not so tired. Harry doesn't really feel like he _needs_ a drink anymore, but he could still go for one, so they do. And due to his days with Nick, Harry knows where all the good spots are. 

"Everybody is wasted here," Louis says, half amused, half something else. They're sitting in a booth under a nauseating blue light. Louis leans against the table towards Harry so his voice carries better. "Shouldn't they, like, cut people off from drinking?"

Harry shrugs. "They're pretty cool here. They don't care what you do as long as you don't start a fight." He learned that on the night that one of Nick's friends punched some bloke for getting handsy with his girlfriend. Blood poured out of the guy's nose quickly, and Harry had a panic attack over it in the bathroom with an employee standing by the door saying he and his friends needed to leave.

Louis takes a small sip from his drink, so Harry allows himself one too. He's already had two, working on his third, and Louis' still nursing his first. Harry doesn't plan on getting hammered, although he did want to drink tonight and Louis doesn't seem to want to play at the same speed Harry is. It's okay, it's is, it's just -- there's this part of Harry that's begging him to throw his drink back and buy another to do the same with that he kind of wanted to indulge tonight. 

They're talking about the logistics of getting a house together soon-ish when Aimee pops up from nowhere. One minute he's talking about patios and the next Aimee's right there, laughing loudly and spilling her drink a bit as she raises her hands over her head. She's shitfaced, and she's glad to see Harry, and immediately, Harry's stomach is churning and he wants to go home. He's usually okay in public spaces so long as Louis and Harry's bubble doesn't get popped, and it's been popped. 

"Harry!" she says, still laughing. Her lipstick is too bright. Looks purple under the blue hue. "I haven't seen you in forever, what's been going on?"

He tries to stand his ground. He doesn't move over so she can sit, and he doesn't give her a smile too enthusiastic, and he doesn't introduce Louis to her again. Nick must be with her, he must be, and he doesn't want her sticking around long enough for him to start wondering where she is. 

He answers her question politely, and the question after that, and the question after that. He thinks he's being bland enough to bore her away, and then she sits down next to Louis, getting all in his space and being completely oblivious about it. 

"Why do I never see you running around with Nick anymore?" she asks, swirling her finger over the top of her drink. "You used to be his little puppy, and now I don't ever see you anymore." She pouts. "You were fun."

He feels trapped and embarrassed. Mostly embarrassed. He won't say he can't believe he used to act like her because it wasn't that long ago, but he will say he can't believe he acted like that around _Louis,_ who looks entirely uncomfortable right now. 

"We stopped talking so much after I moved out, that's all," Harry says. 

"When he kicked you out, you mean?" Aimee asks, cocking her head to the side in clear confusion. Harry steels himself; he doesn't know how much Nick told her. He lets out a short laugh and nods slowly. 

A foot nudges his underneath the table, and he doesn't realize it's Louis until he's pulling away from it and Louis frowns at him. Harry nudges his foot back as a silent apology, and then he downs the rest of his drink. 

Louis clears his throat. "Is Nick here, then?" 

Aimee nods. "He's out back, I think. Taking a phone call or something, I don't really know. I stopped listening to his big mouth about three drinks ago." She turns to look around, probably for Nick. "He should be getting in soon. I could fetch him for you, if you wanted to say hi."

Harry laughs out a small, polite, "No, it's fine," while Louis snorts and says, "Yeah, maybe don't do that," under his breath. 

For a moment, Aimee looks confused. Harry offers her a small smile. "We were planning on leaving soon."

She pouts again. "Oh, but it's been so good seeing you again. You could join us, we're sitting just over there." She motions to a table on the opposite side they're sitting in now. Harry doesn't let himself look over. 

"No, thank you. Louis works early, and -- "

"Oh, babe, please," she pleads, reaching over to grab Harry's hand off the table. Before he can even comprehend the discomfort, he pulls away from her quickly and tucks his hands in his lap. She does't notice it, too fucking drunk. Or high, who knows. "You were always such fun company. And -- oh, there's Nick." She calls for him, but thankfully it's too loud for her voice to carry and Louis puts a stop to all this before it can escalate. 

He stands, flashing her a polite smile as he says they're going to go. He kind of scoots her out of the booth, and then Harry stands and Louis grabs his hand tightly. They mumble out half-hearted apologies about leaving so soon, and they don't necessarily listen to what she says after that because Harry's pulling them to the exit maybe too fast. He keeps his head down, scared of Nick seeing them, and as they push open the door he hears a faint call of his name that sounds a lot like it came from Nick. He could maybe say he imagined it, although the nervous glance he gets from Louis tells him that he heard it right. 

Everything's fine. There's nothing to panic about, there's no threat. Nerves got stacked upon nerves, and he's been drinking, it's -- it's fine. That's what Holly would tell him, so that's what he's trying to tell himself, because, really, there's nothing wrong. Nothing. It's okay. 

He's mostly calm by the time they get to the car, albeit a little shaky. Louis tries to talk to him, but Harry waves him off. He always feels so, so stupid when he gets worked up over something small. 

Eventually, when he feels like he's got his feet back under him and they're about ten minutes from home, Harry lets out a breathless laugh and says, "First my dad, then Nick. Feels like I'm encountering all my old ghosts, or something. Who's next, Oli?"

"God, I hope not," Louis mumbles, shaking his head. He flicks on the blinker as they near a stop side and glances at him briefly. "You good, though? You got a little spooked back there."

Harry nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I think. . . I think it's because I wasn't expecting Aimee or Nick to be there which. . . is probably dumb, because he's the one that showed me that bar."

"Fair enough," Louis says. "I wasn't in a rush to see him again, either. I don't blame you."

Harry nods again. He tries to leave all the stress behind him when they get to the flat. It doesn't seem to be permanently gone until he's in bed with Dwight and Louis. 

-

_Hey, saw you last night but you were leaving with louis. You up for a party at josh's this friday?_

Nick texts him that an hour into his shift, and the words weigh heavy on his brain all day. He hates how badly being back home in Holmes Chapel fucked with his head. If Nick would've texted him before all that happened, he would've scoffed and set down his phone and pushed it to the back of his brain for later, where he would carefully and appropriately dissect how he feels about it with Louis or Taylor or Holly. He's developed coping mechanisms and distractions, ones that don't involve rubber snapping against his skin, and now they all aren't helping, which makes him silently panic more. 

By lunch he feels sick to his stomach, so he sits in his car for an hour straight with the radio up. It's fifteen minutes longer than he's technically allowed to be gone for, and he's leaving the trainee Jordan all by herself for the first time, but he can't focus on anything and he feels a little dizzy. He doesn't want to push it, to push himself. He's trying to avoid an anxiety attack, which Jordan would not want to see. She can handle the store by herself. 

He forces himself to get out of the car once the amount of customers in the store reaches seven. It's been a bit slow today, but this is usually when things start to pick up like they are, and he would be a complete asshole to knowingly put her through a rush by herself. 

The door rings when he comes in, signaling someone new, and Jordan hurriedly glances at the door, looking stressed. She must think it's another customer, because she looks relieved when she sees it's him. He nods at her and makes his way to the counter, being stopped once by a regular who asks about the sunflowers. 

The small rush serves as a nice distraction, but also layers on the stress he's under. It's healthy stress, he thinks, although with it added to the negative stress he feels. . . it doesn't help, to say the least. So, as soon as the bulk of people leave and ten minutes have passed without anyone new coming in, Harry tells Jordan he'll be in the back. 

She looks alarmed. "But -- what if people come in?"

"You help them," he says, forcing himself to be calm. She doesn't deserve anything else. "If it's more than a few people or someone asks something you don't know, come find me. I think Anna's stopping by for a little in, like, an hour, too. You'll be fine."

"Okay," she agrees slowly, clearly reluctant. 

He leaves for the back anyway. She can handle it. And if she can't, he's still here. It's not like he's abandoning her. 

Once he's safely in the back, he pulls out his earbuds and puts them in to play some music. Not loud, and nothing other than crappy slow-pop music. Sometimes fast-paced music stresses him out more when he's like this, so he sticks to things that are lighter. He tries to actually do some work -- he's still gradually picking up responsibilities, and he's supposed to do inventory tonight and make the schedule for this month -- but he can't concentrate for the life of him, so he gives up. He looks out the window, tries to focus on smaller things like birds and cars and the leaves blowing, and he does his counting. 

Counting helps, usually. He gets to one-hundred and forty-five when Jordan comes and finds him, asking about some limited edition bouquet. He feels clearer, lighter, so he follows her back out and explains the answer to the customer. 

-

Nick texts him again thirty minutes before Louis' supposed to be home and Harry's tipsy on red wine. _We don't have to go to a party. It can be anything. I miss you mate._ And that's -- Nick doesn't get to miss him. Nick knew exactly how to hurt him, and he did it intentionally and thoroughly. He can't blame Nick for cutting his wrist like he did that night, but he thinks about that, too. The cuts didn't turn to scars, thankfully. He still thinks about it all the time. 

Harry cut himself off the wine a few minutes ago, put away the bottle and everything, and the text kind of makes him want to get up and pour himself another glass. He doesn't, not because he doesn't want to but because he recognizes that that's unhealthy, so he goes into the top cabinet and pulls out a container of edibles he has. He gets his weed from a friend of Niall's now, and he bought some weed cookies the last time. He eats a quarter of one because he found out the hard way that they were strong, and then goes to their bedroom, leaving his phone on the table. 

He's playing with Dwight's paws when Louis gets in. He gets up, a little woozy from the wine, and goes to the living room to greet him. 

"Hey, were you sleeping?" Louis asks, putting some groceries down on the table. "I texted you to have the door open for me, you goof."

Harry smiles and comes over to help him put away the groceries. "No, was in our room playing with Dwight. How was your day?"

"Okay, you're high," Louis says with a small, amused laugh. He grabs the carton of milk of Harry's hand and kisses him chastely. "My day was fine, though. Quite boring, if I'm honest. You?" 

Harry watches as Louis puts the milk away, and he sees the look on Louis' face when he sees the wine glass in the sink after he's shut the fridge. He gives Harry a questioning look and that's it. He doesn't press it. So Harry decides not to mention right now that Nick texted him, because he doesn't want to worry Louis. 

"Fine," he says, taking a package of noodles out of the shopping bag and putting them away. "Trained Jordan more. That's it, really."

"Was Anna in at all today, or did she leave you to do everything again?"

Harry laughs quietly as he puts the frozen pizza in the freezer. Louis is convinced Harry's taking on too many responsibilities to be _just_ an assistant manager, and he's probably right, honestly, but Harry doesn't mind it. "She stopped by to drop off our checks and she held the counter on Jordan's break."

It goes on like that for a while, them being normal, until about a half hour later. Harry's messing around with Dwight again in the living room while Louis does something in the kitchen, until Louis comes around to the living room. He looks a bit uneasy. 

"What?" Harry asks, sitting up on his elbows. Dwight jumps at the toy Harry's dangling in front of him, and his tail hits Harry's arm. 

Louis shakes his head. "Nothing."

He knows how to read Louis by now, and he knows that Louis' thinking about something. Normally, he would let it go, but normally he doesn't get high and slightly tipsy in the same night. He knows that's what this is about, and it's -- annoyed isn't the right word. Louis has every right to feel uneasy about that, especially with Harry's track record. It's just, he wishes Louis wasn't the type to notice stuff like that. 

Over the years, he’s accepted that he kind of forfeited his trustworthiness with the people closest to him. It’s not like they don’t trust him, it’s that they have learned what might happen if they take him at his word. Louis has every right to feel nervous and paranoid when Harry misses a call; Harry thought about killing himself in front of him once, and that’s not the type of thing you’d just forget. Same thing with Taylor. Taylor and Louis aren’t being controlling or mean when they need a little more honesty from him. They’re trying to keep Harry safe, while also trying to ease the worry in their own heads. 

"I had two glasses," Harry says, sitting up completely. He lightly tosses Dwight's toy off to the side, and he jumps at it. Once it's between his paws, he flops on his back and bats at it some more. "I was stressed, and I had some wine. I wanted more but I knew I probably shouldn't, so I ate, like, a quarter of a weed cookie. I'm fine." Louis shifts his weight on his legs, still looking apprehensive. Before he can talk, Harry adds, "And I know you don't like me mixing the two, but I didn't take too much of either, so I thought it would be fine."

Louis nods, looking visibly more relaxed. It's not like Louis' questioning him because he's demanding answers, he's just worried. He's allowed to be worried; Harry doesn't take offense to that. "You don't normally drink alone, is all. I mean, that bottle of wine has been up there for a month, and you haven't taken an interest in it or going to a pub since we got back from your parents'. I'm just. . . making an observation, I guess."

Harry opens his mouth to say something that might be reassuring, but closes it once he realizes that nothing that's entirely truthful can be said to comfort him. He sighs quietly and shrugs a little. "It wasn't about my parents. Nick texted me earlier, and it got my brain going and I. . . Drinking shouldn't be a solution to cope with things, I know, but I didn't feel like going outside to smoke and I -- "

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Louis interrupts, smiling softly. "I'm not trying to interrogate you. It seems like you have it in control. I was just checking in, is all. But what'd Nick say?"

"He asked me if I wanted to go to a party." Harry pats Dwight's head and gets a thwap for it before he stands. He plops on the couch, and Louis follows. "I ignored it, so he said we could do something else and that he missed me. Ignored that, too."

Louis clearly agrees with his method of attack, although he seems like he doesn't want to say it. He feels like he's too controlling over Harry, sometimes. And it's not true, it's the opposite of the truth, but Louis already pressed on the alcohol and he probably doesn't want to immediately put his opinion in somewhere else. It's not usually a problem between them, although it comes up sometimes. And, to be completely honest, Harry secretly is comforted by the fact that Louis has his own insecurities they occasionally have to talk through. 

Eventually, Louis admits that he really doesn't want Harry talking to Nick again, and Harry agrees easily, and that's that. For now, at least. They move on with their day. They eat dinner, and then they fuck on the couch after putting Dwight in the other room, and then they cuddle in bed. Harry sleeps easy tonight. 

-

It's a chain of events, what happens next. 

Three weeks later, Harry's folding the laundry with Louis on their bed. Dwight is on the ledge of the window, sunbathing. They're watching season six of _The Walking Dead,_ their new binge show at the moment. Harry's still slightly high from the joint he smoked about three hours ago. It's so, so normal that it almost seems too easy for something to ruin it. 

Harry's phone lights up from where it's charging a few feet away. It's a call. He can't see who it's from, but he decides to ignore it. He misses the second call, too focused on folding Louis' scrubs the way he likes. And then Louis' phone rings -- he always keeps his volume on, always prepared on his days off to be called into work. Harry doesn't think anything of it as Louis sighs and gets out of bed to answer it, although he does feel his stomach churn when Louis says it's Gemma. 

"Are you serious?" is the first thing that comes out of Louis' mouth after a hello. And then a quiet, "When? This morning?" Harry stares at him intently, trying to figure out the situation. "How's your mum handling it?"

Oh. So his dad is dead. The nineteenth of March is as good a day as any for him to die. He looks down at Louis' scrubs, smoothing over them unnecessarily. He's not sad. He's not relieved, although he's sure that'll come later. He's just -- annoyed, kind of, that their day has been ruined. Louis' probably not going to let him get away with not talking about it. Even dead, his father manages to ruin his day. 

Louis eventually gets off the phone, and Harry doesn't look up. He's fiddling with the pocket of Louis' shirt, trying to smooth out a small wrinkle. He doesn't want to look at Louis, too scared that Louis will think he's a terrible person for not caring that his father is dead.

"Hey, Haz?" Louis says quietly, clearly trying to break the news gently. 

Harry shakes his head. "I know. It's fine."

"You know what?"

"That he's dead," Harry says, looking up. He doesn't read any disgust on Louis' face from Harry being so nonchalant, so that's good. "It's fine. How's my mum, though?"

"Devastated, Gemma says."

Harry scoffs quietly. Of course she is. She loved him, so of course she's going to grieve him. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve to be loved by anyone, let alone by someone so blindingly loyal. He's just glad that he died knowing how botched his relationship with Harry is, even if he didn't care. 

"Harry -- "

"I don't want to talk about it," Harry interrupts. "There's no point. Can we just watch our show, please?"

Reluctantly, Louis gets back into bed. He hesitates on what to do next, so Harry tosses him a pile of socks that need matching. He sighs quietly and starts to fold them, probably wanting Harry to talk to him but not knowing how to ask for that. 

Later on, while they're eating dinner, Harry says, "I don't care. I'm not sad. We knew it was going to happen, and it happened. I don't think it has to be any bigger than that."

Louis, looking a little surprised, nods slowly. "Okay," he says, nodding. Still, he looks a little reluctant. "Okay. But I'm here, you know? If you want to talk about it."

"I know."

They go back to eating, and Louis only looks at him worriedly twice. 

-

Then comes the funeral.

Louis and Harry don't go. Harry didn't want to go to begin with, and then Louis checked the calendar and saw they were both working that day, so Harry decided they just wouldn't go. There was no point. He doesn't want to be around a group of people who claimed to love someone he hated more than anything, and he doesn't want to see his mother cry over him, so they don't go. Louis asks him if he's sure about two hundred times, but Harry's certain that he won't be missing anything. 

Work is fine. Once it's over, he heads to the gym for a little while. That's fine, too. The entire day, though, his head is constantly repeating, _He's dead, he's being buried today, he's dead, it's over. It's over._

He gets home and Louis' still not in, so he takes a shower and then goes back outside to smoke. It's slightly irritating, having to go outside every time he wants to smoke, but both Louis and Harry aren't a huge fan of the idea of subjecting Dwight to secondhand smoke. It doesn't matter that it's just weed, it's still smoke, and they love Dwight too much. And besides, Louis does actually hate the smell of it now, so Harry can tough it out and smoke outside. The only real downfall is that all their neighbors know he's a major pothead. He doesn’t talk to any of them, anyway. 

He's stoned when his mum calls him. Maybe that's why he doesn't try to play nice. He's mad at her, and he doesn't feel the need to hide it anymore. His father is dead, and now Harry doesn't have to be nice to her out of guilt or fear or whatever the fuck he does it for. 

He lets the first call go to voicemail as he finishes up outside, and he calls her back as he heads inside. She answers as he has the key in the door, and immediately, she's angry. 

"I can't believe you aren't here," she snaps. "I can't believe you. Your father is dead, and you're not here."

"I told you I wasn't coming," Harry says around a small sigh. He shuts the door behind him and says hello to Dwight again before sitting down on the couch. Dwight follows him, purring as Harry scratches his chin. "I worked today, and so did Louis."

"You could have called in."

He closes his eyes. "I probably could have, yeah, but I don't like him calling off of work for me. He actually has an important job."

"Louis didn't need to come," she says. "You could've come if you really wanted to. Stop trying to make excuses for yourself."

"I'm not," Harry denies immediately, starting to feel defensive. "I didn't want to come. I didn't feel the need to."

She scoffs loudly. For a moment, she's speechless, trying to string words together and failing. Finally, she gets out, "Your grandma is so disappointed in you. She's been wanting to see you."

"I can't even remember the last time I saw her, Mum. I'm sure she doesn't care all that much."

She exhales sharply. "Your sister is here with Steven. She was able to put aside their differences, so why couldn't you?"

Harry opens his eyes then. He shouldn't be surprised he has to spell this out for his mum. She's never understood, and she never will. It's like she brainwashed herself into only remembering the good bits. "Gemma never had the shit beaten out of her by him. Neither have you, as far as I know, so don't pretend like you know how it feels."

And that really sets her off; she asks how could say that today, when Mike's dead. She tells him it's not right to talk about the dead like that and that he should let him rest in peace. Harry actually laughs at that, which makes her even more furious. She goes on and on and on, saying everything and anything that she think might make Harry feel guilty, and none of it fucking works. None of it will ever work. 

"Mum," he says, cutting her off. She keeps going, so he says it a few more times before she stops. "Mum, I love you, I do, but I don't give a shit about him. I don't care. He was an asshole, and now he finally got what he deserved and -- "

"How could you _say_ that? How could you -- "

"Mum," he says patiently. "You're insane if you think I would have drove three hours to see someone I hate buried and then drive three hours back. I have better things to do with my time. And if that makes me a terrible person, well. So be it, I guess. But I don't think it does."

"It does," she says coldly.

He scoffs. "Yeah? If that makes me a terrible person, I wonder what that makes you. Someone who puts their child in harm's way every single goddamn day and then gets mad at them for trying to protect themselves is pretty shitty too, don't you think?"

"So, what? Does that mean you aren't going to come to my funeral, either?" She's testing him, and Harry's too tired to not take the bait. 

"I don't know, Mum," he says, trying to sound as nonchalant about it as he can. "I guess we'll have to wait and see if I'm working that day."

She starts to shout at him again, so he hangs up. He has to. He doesn't want to hear it. There's so many other things she could rip into him about that would actually make him a bad person, but not coming to the funeral isn't one. He knows he didn't make the wrong decision. He'd be lying if he said the idea of his mum in all black sitting in her car outside of a church, crying and screaming at her son, makes him sad, but his sympathy only goes so far with her. 

He lies on the couch, slightly upset but not entirely. He expected that from his mum. The influx of texts he receives from Gemma about ten minutes later calling him selfish and a coward and saying he has no respect for anybody is a surprise, though. He thought Gemma understood, to an extent.

 _You fucked up,_ one of her texts read. _And you're going to let Louis promise you that you didn't do anything wrong because he thinks you can't do any wrong, but you can and you did. I know it's not fucking easy for you but you could've sucked it up for one fucking day._

After that text, he shoves his phone in between the couch cushions and goes to their bedroom. He crawls under the blankets, trying to avoid everything that just happened, and closes his eyes. He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but he does, and he gets woken up by Louis dropping a pan in the kitchen an hour later. He doesn't get up to say hi, he just wants to sleep some more, so he grabs Louis' pillow and hugs to his chest and quickly falls back asleep.

-

Nick texts him again about a month after the funeral. 

_The least you could do is text me back. I know I fucked up but how do expect me to fix it if you don't me a chance?_

It seems fair. Harry doesn't think Nick particularly deserves a second chance, nor does he know why he would want one after all this time. Regardless, Nick is trying. Kind of. Three texts and one of them already sounding entitled shouldn't be classified as trying, but. . . Would becoming friends with Nick again really be so bad? He's better now, less fucked in the head -- he'd be able to set boundaries this time around, he'd be strong enough to let Nick know when to stop. 

For a moment, Harry considers calling Taylor to get her opinion in it. He decides not to, because not everything he does has to be a huge thing. The most he's going to do right now is text him back. Overthinking about every little thing going on in life is stupid. 

_I suppose that's fair,_ is what he sends back. He'll probably give Nick another chance, but he doesn't have to make it easy. He's not going to go crawling back to him right away, not until Nick has given a little bit of effort. 

He doesn't tell Louis about talking to Nick again. It's an intentional decision; he doesn't want Louis worried about him, or getting upset with Harry for doing something that he might consider stupid. For once, Harry wants things to be fine and calm and to just _be_ , without all the thinking and the talking and the stressing. 

Which is why Harry gets so defensive about it when Louis does find out that he's talking to Nick again, about three weeks later. Louis grabbed Harry's phone to check the time since his was somewhere else, which is usually fine, except a text from Nick was waiting on the home screen. Louis sees it, and immediately, he gives Harry a look. 

"It's not a big deal, okay?" Harry snaps after Louis asks him why with an accusing look. "We're just texting."

"He hurt you, though. I thought we both agreed he didn't get to come back from that."

Harry recognizes that he feels way too angry and charged for such a small thing. He's more in tune with his mind now, and he can acknowledge that he's feeling defensive purely because Louis' right and he feels guilty for keeping it from Louis. That's something Holly has helped him with, something he's worked on identifying and working through, and yet he completely disregards that and gives into the anger. 

He's tired. He's been tired since he got back home from Holmes Chapel, and he's been trying to ignore it. The longer he ignores it, the longer he tries to convince himself and Louis that he walked away from that unscathed, the heavier and heavier it feels on his shoulders. 

"I don't want to talk about it," he says, shaking his head. "It's none of your business."

Louis pulls back, clearly confused. "Harry, I'm not -- all I'm asking is what changed your mind."

"And I said I don't want to talk about it, so let it go."

"You're being irritating," Louis says. He stands from the couch, giving Harry a pointed look as he does. "I'm going to start dinner, I guess."

He's giving Harry space to reflect on why he's being so temperamental and giving him room to fix it, which is fair. Harry objectively needs time to cool down from something that shouldn't have gotten him so wound up in the first place. He knows that, he understands it, he agrees with it. . . he just doesn't want to have to be the one to go make himself look like an idiot by apologizing to Louis for taking out his anger on him for literally no reason. 

He has to, though. That's how relationships work. He's not going to let him and Louis get in a bad place because he's maybe not doing so great. (He doesn't know why that's so hard to admit this time around. He's not even doing that bad, and yet acknowledging that he is going through somewhat of a hard time seems impossible. Admitting it to Louis seems even harder.)

He waits a few minutes before going into the kitchen to help Louis make dinner. At first, he's a little worried he's not doing the right thing and _Louis'_ the one who wanted space, but he earns a small nod as he grabs out a pot to start boiling the noodles. 

They'll talk about it, later. But for now they cook together quietly, letting the tension between them dissolve naturally. 

-

Maybe it's the home visit, or getting yelled at on the day of his father's funeral, or maybe it's something else that makes more sense for him to make the decision he does. It's not, though. He knows it's not. Just because he wishes him having a massive panic attack at work isn't what makes him ask Nick for drugs doesn't mean that's not what happened. 

It's just -- so confusing. And he's pretty sure it's a lot of things stacking up on one another, even though he's been talking about them with Louis and his therapist. But that panic attack is the final tipping point, and he wishes it wasn't. That's pathetic. He's been having panic attacks for as long as he remembers. 

It's deeper than that, of course. Work has become a safe space from him, a place where he feels respected, and having a slight breakdown that the person he's training walks in on is not the way to keep that respect. It's the type of panic attack that he truly thinks will kill him, where his hands go numb and his brain starts to get cloudy. Having a panic attack as severe as that is always rattling enough, and to have it at work is even worse. 

Logically, he knows going to Nick for help is the last person he should go to. Louis, Taylor, Holly -- all of them would be a safer, smarter option. Nick's going to give him something to help, sure, but it won't help for long. It'll cause problems long-term. Back then, he was relying on substances to keep him in check, yes, but not like this. He's seeking one specific thing to rely on, to mess with the chemicals in his head, and that's -- risky. Stupid. Immature.

He knows all these things, too, and he doesn't stop himself. That can't be blamed on anything other than him being a complete idiot. 

Nick and he have been texting back and forth for a while now, so it's not completely out of the ordinary for Harry to text and ask, _Hey, remember those pills you'd give me to help me calm down?_ It seems relatively innocent. He thinks it does, anyway. 

Nick texts him back later on that yeah, he does remember. It was Valium, apparently, which kind of confuses Harry because he's been offered that drug in therapy before. That was one of the options to treat his anxiety, one that Louis cautioned him on taking when he asked for advice because it's highly addictive. He thought Nick was going to say it was some highly illegal shit, and no, it's just Valium. 

Harry picks up a bottle of it from Nick's house on his way home. 

-

How fast he gets hooked on it is completely shocking to him. He's been taking three separate medications in almost identical bottles as the Valium for years, and he didn't get addicted to those. Granted, he's not taking two, three, four at a time every time he gets the slightest bit anxious. 

It starts to feel like he's almost convincing himself that there's a problem so he has an excuse to take one, which is -- fucking obnoxious. He just wanted to get his anxiety in check. He knew doing it like this wasn't the smartest idea, but he didn't realize how fucking stupid it actually was until he's getting the next bottle from Nick and Nick warns him that he needs to slow down. 

He needs to tell Louis before he finds out on his own. He needs to. He doesn't want to be addicted to some fucking prescription drug, that wasn't his fucking goal here. And yeah, Holly and Louis and probably even Taylor would have told him that if he found Valium helpful in the past, he could get a prescription for it and take it properly. Healthily, in healthy doses. He's a fucking idiot. 

Louis thinks he stoned out of his mind all the time, which is an easy excuse to hide behind. It's a lie, though. He's lying to someone who he loves so fucking much and for what. It's stupid. It's so stupid. It takes exactly two months for him to stop being so goddamn irresponsible, and in those two months he keeps tiny pills in his pockets that he digs around for every few hours, no matter what his stress levels are like. 

He's worked himself down from a fit of tears as he waits for Louis to get home from work on the day he decides enough's enough. He doesn't want to cry, doesn't feel like he earned the right to. He actively sought this out. He knew that taking them was stupid. The problem is, though, is he knows how angry Louis is going to be with him. How ruthless he's going to be with forcing Harry to take accountability. That's the scary part. 

What's also scary is that he tells himself that it's okay to take two pills quickly as he hears Louis' keys in the door. He regrets it as soon as he's done it, as soon as Louis' greeting him with a sweet hello and a small kiss. Maybe he should wait until they're out of his system to talk to Louis, but he also knows that if he does that, he'll push it off longer than he should. Long enough for it to become an even more serious problem. 

Louis showers after talking to Harry for a few minutes, and Harry pulls himself from the couch to their bed. It's stupid -- their room is literally Harry's ultimate safe space, and he shouldn't ruin that -- but he feels less exposed in here. He waits with Dwight for Louis to get out of the shower, and then he comes into the room to get dressed. As soon as he's pulled on his pants, Harry forces himself to speak up. 

"Louis," he says slowly, hating how unlike himself he sounds. Louis glances at him, a small smile on his face. "I really need to talk to you."

The smile slowly drifts as he sits on the bottom bed, turned to Harry. "Okay. About what?"

And this is the part he couldn't get right in his head. There's no easy way to say it, no way to make himself sound less bad or to make it easier for Louis to understand and hear. Tears prick his eyes that he quickly wills away by stroking Dwight's fur. He clears his throat. "I really fucked up and I don't know how to tell you how."

"Just tell me," Louis says, furrowing his eyebrows. He scoots closer to Harry, but not close enough to touch. He's probably got a hundred ideas running through his head right now, none of them even close to the truth. When Harry doesn't answer, Louis looks more concerned. "Babe. Come on. Is it -- did you relapse?"

Harry shakes his head. "It's stupider than that."

"I'm pretty sure this is how every 'Sorry, babe, I cheated,' conversation goes," Louis says, half looking like he's joking and half looking awfully insecure. He lets out an empty laugh. "Come on. Seriously."

Harry folds his hands together and glances at the ceiling, counts to ten. Then twenty. He takes one last deep breath before looking back at Louis and saying, "I got some -- some stupid pills from Nick and now I'm pretty sure I'm addicted to them." He glances down at his hands before he can see Louis process that and takes another deep breath, this one coming out uneven. "No, I am. I am addicted to them. And I feel so fucking stupid."

There's a long pause, and the entire time it takes for Louis to say something, Harry's itching for more pills, and he can't believe how fucking fitting that is. 

"What are you taking?" Louis asks, sounding completely unlike himself, too. His voice has a hard-lining to it, cold and angry. Probably confused, too. 

"It's just Valium," Harry mumbles, and immediately hates himself for saying that because he knows that if it was _just_ Valium he wouldn't be fucking addicted to it. 

"How long have you been taking it?"

"Two months."

"How often?"

"A lot. Like, a lot, Louis." 

More tears burn his eyes, and these ones are harder to blink back. 

Louis lets out a loud, tired sigh. "And you've been taking it with your other medications, I'm assuming?"

"Yeah," Harry whispers, his voice cracking. "I stopped -- not my anxiety medication. I stopped taking that one."

"You are a fucking idiot," Louis snaps, standing up. Harry risks a glance at him, and he looks just as mad as he sounds. Harry doesn't let himself look away, because he knows he deserves this. "Do you not care about your mental health at all?" he asks. "No, I know you do, that's the part I don't fucking understand. We finally had a perfect combination for you, one that you didn't want to mess with, and then you go and take fucking _Valium_ and stop taking the anxiety medication your fucking therapist gave you?"

Harry feels helpless. "I didn't think I'd get addicted to it, Lou. I'm sorry."

"That's so not even the point right now," Louis says, shaking his head. "Harry. You do realize how fucking, like, chemistry works, right? You can't just throw a bunch of pills in your system and expect them all to blend well. You could have seriously hurt yourself. I'm surprised nothing happened to you. And," he pauses to let out a heavy breath, "and then taking yourself off a medication you've been taking for two and a half years cold turkey like that? Shit, H."

Well. He hadn't thought of any of that. 

"And now who even knows if your old meds will work," Louis continues. "If you've built a tolerance to this Valium, which I assume you have, that might affect how efficient your other meds will be. And for what? That's what I don't get."

"I was feeling super anxious all the time," Harry says, fully knowing it's not good enough.

"You have a therapist for a reason," Louis tells him. "You have a _boyfriend_ for a reason."

It's hard, having this conversation. He knows he's fucked up, he knows he did something stupid. He knows everything Louis is saying, so he doesn't know what he's supposed to say back. An apology won't fix anything, although he says sorry, anyway. It can't hurt. 

Louis completely ignores it. "You have to quit taking them."

"I will," Harry says. "I will. I _want_ to. That's -- that's why I told you."

Louis stares at him for a long time. Stares through him, more like. He's probably thinking about what he should do. He's probably wondering if he should even help. Harry can't imagine trying so hard to help someone who makes dumb fucking decisions all the time. He needs to start being better again, for Louis. 

"Give me the pills," Louis says after a long minute, crossing his arms. "I want all of it. Don't try to fucking trick me."

Harry doesn't want to get out of bed right now, and his limbs feel as heavy as lead, but he figures that Louis won't care about any of that. He slowly pulls himself from the bed and goes to the kitchen, leaving Louis in the room. He doesn't follow, which scares Harry, for some reason. He quickly gets the bottle of pills out of the container he keeps his edibles in and puts the container back. He takes the few pills in his pants pocket and puts them back in the bottle, and then he goes back to the bedroom, his heart beating too fast. 

When he hands Louis the pill bottle, Louis takes it and examines the label. As he does that, Harry goes over to his work coat hanging in the closet and opens the pockets, grabbing the pills from there, too. He usually takes them out after work, making sure Louis can't find them, but he didn't today. He decided this morning he was going to tell Louis, so there was no point. 

He hands the four pills to Louis with his eyes cast down, and Louis takes them and puts them in the container with the others. "There's more in my car, too," Harry says quietly, shame heating his body. "In the console. I'll get them and give it to you tomorrow morning, before work."

There's a short pause, and then, "You've not been taking them before you drive, right?"

God, shame and embarrassment don't have to be so fucking hot. He can feel it in his veins, the heat travelling all over like it's trying to run away. He has to look Louis in the eye then, has to, and he's met with so much disappointment that it makes his stomach hurt. "Only sometimes." Louis scoffs, glancing away, and Harry reaches out to touch him. It's a scary thing to do right now, but once Harry's got his hand circled around Louis' wrist, he doesn't regret it. "They don't fuck me up too badly to drive, okay, it's -- "

"Stop it," Louis snaps, pulling his hand from Harry. Not harshly, but it feels like it might as well have been. "I didn't think I'd have to fucking worry about that with you. Worry about you being a drug addict, too, on top of fucking everything else."

That's. . . fair. It stings a little, and it's completely fair. Louis has to put up with too much with him, Harry already knew that. "I'm sorry," Harry whispers, tears clouding his eyes. "Genuinely, Louis. I'm sorry. I'd take it back if I could."

Louis clenches his jaw, still looking the other way. 

"I don't think I'm a drug addict, though," Harry says, even though he knows it's going to get him in trouble. Louis looks at him sharply, and Harry's quick to explain himself. "I know -- I know I have a problem, okay? But I don't think it'll happen again, so I don't know if it's right to call me that. I got a little stuck on it, is all. I promise it's not going to be a reoccurring problem."

"You can't promise me shit, Harry."

He's not saying it like Harry can't say for certainty he won't be a pill-popper for the rest of his life, he's saying it like he doesn't think Harry's trustworthy in anything anymore, and Harry doesn't know how to feel. He deserves it, he does. He fucked up, and he deserves to be treated like he fucked up, it's just -- Louis is his everything and more, and hearing him say that shatters something deep inside of him. 

Holly often says that he's too dependent on Louis, and he always pretends like he doesn't know what she means, but right now, he understands it entirely. 

"Do you want me to go somewhere else?" Harry asks quietly, feeling awfully insecure. "Like, do you want me to leave?"

Louis looks the most mad he has this entire time, which is saying a lot. "Do I want you to run away from your problems? No, Harry, I don't, but thanks for asking, I guess."

"I don't know what to do, okay? I don't know what you need."

"I don't know what I need either," Louis says, "but we've never done it like that and I don't want to start now."

It's the softest tone he's taken with Harry during this entire conversation, and Harry isn't surprised that it's followed by Louis turning around and leaving the bedroom. Harry stands there for a few seconds, hating himself more than he ever has, listening to Louis moving around in the living room. When he hears Louis say, "You could have fucking killed him," to someone, probably Nick, over the phone, he pulls himself into bed and finally lets himself cry, not because Louis was hard on him, but because he's made Louis worried and sad and disappointed for the millionth times, and it feels like he can't do anything right. 

"You gave someone with severe mental illnesses fucking pills, Nick, what did you think would happen?" Louis sounds so distraught. So upset. When Louis starts to drill Nick on how this might lead Harry to relapse in other things, Harry has to get up and shut the door. 

He doesn't stop crying for hours, and by the time Louis comes back into the room, he's so tired and his head is pounding from crying so much and he's etched a dark red patch on his wrist with his thumb nail. He rarely has serious urges to self-harm anymore, and he's not even having those urges now, but he still does scratch himself occasionally, usually in an attempt to soothe himself rather than punish himself. 

Harry doesn't move while Louis gets ready for bed, and he tries to stop crying but it doesn't really work. He just lies there, staring at Dwight who's laying on Louis' pillow, until Louis gets into bed and flicks on the lamp. Still, he doesn't move, and he doesn't stop crying. If anything, he starts crying harder. 

"I really am sorry," Harry croaks out, sitting up on his elbow. "And I know that doesn't mean anything, I know it doesn't, and I -- I don't even know. I don't. I don't know what to say other than I know I fucked up and that I'm really fucking sorry."

Louis looks down at him tiredly from where he's sitting next to Dwight. He looks like he's contemplating something before he grabs Harry's hand, and Harry almost surges towards him, frantic for any sign of forgiveness. He scoots a little closer and lays back down, squeezing Louis' hand. He sucks in a shaky breath as Louis puts his other hand over the scratch mark. 

"I want you to talk to Holly about all of this," Louis says, leaving no room for argument in his tone. "I need you to be honest with her. And I want you to tell her that you sometimes don't feel like yourself, that you're disconnected from reality, and I want you to ask her about the odds of you having Borderline Personality Disorder, because I know you don't think you have it, but I really think you might."

They've talked about that a few times, mostly in passing. Louis thinks that Harry's symptoms lineup those of BPD, and Harry agrees, he does, but they don't line up _perfectly._ He's not in a rush to get diagnosed with that, anyway. If Holly hasn't mentioned it by now, he doubts there's anything there. But he will bring it up to see what Holly thinks about it, if that's what Louis wants him to do. 

"Okay," Harry agrees. "I will. All of that, I will."

Louis nods, turns off the lamp, and lies down next to Harry. He doesn't make a move to cuddle, but he does move closer and doesn't let go of his hand. "I'm sorry for the way I handled that earlier. It just -- I was shocked. Still am, if I'm honest."

"I deserved it. It was stupid to do."

"You don't deserve to cry in bed for hours alone," Louis says, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."

Harry shrugs and risks scooting closer. Louis doesn't tell him to back off, but he also doesn't reciprocate the gesture. It's okay. "I had Dwight. It's okay." He squeezes Louis' fingers. "You have dealt with so much shit from me, I don't think I'm in any position to criticize you for anything."

Louis sighs quietly before saying, "You scratched yourself. Is that something we have to focus on again?"

"I'm not going to cut myself again, no. I don't even want to talk about that."

Louis must decide that they've talked enough about this, because he finally scoots forward and opens his arms up for Harry. Too quickly, Harry slots himself against him, tucking his face against Louis' next and curling his fingers around the collar of his shirt. 

"I love you," Harry whispers, a new wave of tears coming. He sniffles quietly. "I know that doesn't make up for anything, but I just. . . I love you."

"I love you, too."

-

The next therapy appointment is a whirlwind of questions and confusion. Holly is completely blindsided by all of this mess, something Harry expected. He's kind of kept her out of the loop for a while now. You can't pretend that everything's fine by telling your therapist every reason why it isn't. 

It's been a week since Harry told Louis, and Louis' already cut him down on the Valium by a lot. He doesn't want Harry getting too bad of withdrawal symptoms, so they keep lowering the amount he takes in the hopes he'll be off it completely by the end of the month. It sounds safe, and even though Harry's felt a little raw and a lot tired, he knows there's not a better option. 

"Louis wants your opinion on the prospect of me having BPD," Harry says quickly, hoping that if he says it fast enough, she won't think about it too much. She furrows her eyebrows and taps her pen once on the clipboard. 

"Borderline Personality Disorder?"

Harry nods, shifting around in his seat uncomfortably. "I took some tests online. A lot of them say I might." He swallows thickly, not liking how uncertain he feels. His mind has been a storm ever since he started taking every online test on BPD he could find. Some say there’s not a chance, some say it’s very likely. Some say he could fall somewhere in the middle. It’s been stressing him out massively. "But those are just tests, right? Like, they don't mean anything. Right?"

"I don't see you as someone with that specific disorder," Holly says. "Of course you do share some traits with it, but I didn't think there was enough to explore the possibility anymore than I already did."

"You should have told me that it was something you thought I might have," Harry says, crossing his arms. He's not being rude, it's just -- he's kind of freaked out about this. He thought they had his brain figured out down to a T, and now it doesn't seem so clear anymore. "Do you know someone I could see for a second opinion?" She falters, and Harry feels a little bit frantic when he says, "I still want to see you. I don't want a new therapist. I just want a second opinion."

"Of course," she says, nodding. She moves back in her chair and opens a cabinet, where she pulls out a list of names and locations from. She hands it to him, and he folds it up and puts it in his pocket without looking at it. 

He takes a long, deep breath. "Even if I do have it," he starts. "It won't change anything, right? I mean, yeah, maybe the approach we take will change, but. . . but nothing else, right?"

"Your combination of medications and talk therapy has been working for you for a long time now. I don't see why we'd have to change anything now, unless there's something new you want to try."

"I don't want anything to change," Harry says with a small, insecure laugh. "I don't want to feel like I don't know myself again."

She smiles warmly at him. "That won't happen."

-

He makes an appointment with a Dr. Melinda Sheldon right when he gets home for two weeks from now, and during those two weeks, he can barely concentrate on anything and is so fucking sad. Louis thinks it has more to with the withdrawal than anything else, but Harry knows it's not that. It's the fact that his mental health is still such a fucking battle; if he has BPD, if that's what this new doctor tells him, he's pretty sure he's going to break. How, he's not sure, but he knows it's not going to be good.

Taylor drives him to the appointment, because it feels fitting. She's still his best fucking friend, even if they've maybe gotten a little less close over time. He's pretty sure that's healthy, with him being in a relationship now. She asked him why this is such a big deal for him, and he had to tell her that he didn't fucking know because he doesn't, it's just -- please no. That's all he can keep thinking. Please, don't let him have this. 

The sign-in and wait process is one he's done a million times, albeit in a different office, so it's not too daunting. He doesn't start to get properly anxious until he's sitting in a room with a stranger sitting in front of him, asking him all types of questions. 

Dr. Sheldon is nice, he'll give her that. Extremely empathetic. But she asks all the hard hitting questions, like details of his childhood and of his mental health history, when and why he started self-harming, all about the Valium incident -- all of it. He knew it was coming, and he's not too scared about opening up about it to professionals now, but it's still overwhelming. 

She does several assessments, some written and some verbal, that take too fucking long. By the time she tells him that it is probable that he has Borderline Personality Disorder, though, he wants to ask her to let him redo the tests because no, no, no. Fuck no. 

"I see this comes as a shock," she says quietly. "Has nobody ever discussed the possibility of this with you before?"

Harry shakes his head silently. Tears are burning his eyes, and he wants them to go away. 

"I don't think this has to be something scary," she tells him. "In fact, I think you could and probably should stick to your current treatment plan. I would like it if you came in to see me at least a few more times, that way I'd feel more comfortable diagnosing you with BPD officially and I could answer any of your questions."

"How bad is it?" he asks, his voice sounding strained. 

She smiles at him encouragingly. "Moderate, I'd say. Nothing too severe. You don't seem to have the paranoia and anger that is true for those with severe BPD, but you do have a lot of the other traits."

Nothing's changed. Nothing has to change. He now knows the way his mind works is a little different than he thought, but that doesn't mean it has to be a bad thing. If anything, maybe this can be good. Maybe now he can work on his problems from a new angle.

That's what he tries telling himself, anyway. It all sounds like a load of bullshit. 

"I've been seeing the same therapist for over three years and she's never even brought up the possibility of it to me," Harry says. "How can you diagnose me after one meeting?"

"BPD is often misdiagnosed," she tells him calmly. She still has the same encouraging smile on her face. "It's a disorder that has symptoms that a lot of other disorders do, too. And it's possible that your current therapist didn't take a step back to look at the big picture, which is something that sometimes happens. From what you've told me today, though -- and again, I would like to see you again for another session to be sure -- it seems like you have patterns of certain behaviors."

He doesn't say anything, because all that makes him think is that Holly, the first medical professional he ever trusted, didn't do her job well enough, or at the very least missed something. He doesn't want to blame her for this: he came in saying he had depression and anxiety and that he wanted help with that, and she did help him with that. Maybe he didn't give her enough room to question anything else. 

"How are you feeling now?" Dr. Sheldon asks. 

Harry shrugs stiffly, staring out at the window behind her. "Like I didn't need to know this. Feels like you just over-complicated everything." He takes a deep breath and says, "I'm not, like, saying you did anything wrong. You're just doing your job, I know that."

"Sometimes people find comfort in being diagnosed with something, and sometimes people don't. No matter what you're feeling, it's a valid response to have."

It must be a therapist thing to say a bunch of words that don't actually mean a whole lot. He thought it was just a Holly thing. He takes another deep breath and tries to get his thoughts organized, tries to sort out exactly where this absolute devastation is coming from. It doesn't seem so clear, so he tries to communicate what he does know. 

"Feels like depression and anxiety is less of a life-sentence than Borderline is," Harry says, voice coming out only a little shaky. He crosses his arms over his chest and continues to stare out the window, trying to focus on the bird that's sitting on the electrical wire outside. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"Everybody gets anxious," he says. "Everybody gets sad. And, like. I feel those things on a much higher level than everybody else, yeah, but -- still felt like I wasn't all that different. Now, like. . . I don't know anyone who has BPD. I don't -- the people in my life didn't sign up for that." He lets out a humorless laugh. "We all knew I was crazy, just. Not this crazy."

Louis doesn't fucking deserve this. He shouldn't have to hear that his boyfriend has another fucking thing added to their mental health report. Harry could lie, could say that Dr. Sheldon said he didn't have it, but he doesn't want to deal with this alone. 

"It makes sense, I guess," Harry says, and now his voice shows exactly how hurt he's feeling right now. She pushes the tissues towards him, and that makes Harry want to laugh more than he wants to cry. "I've done shit in my life that most people haven't. My boyfriend's friend has depression, and he never hurts himself or gets hooked on fucking Valium. He's a nurse, he -- he's got his shit together, he still managed to figure it out."

She tells him a lot of things that are supposed to make him feel better. He's not crazy, this doesn't change anything, the people in his life love him and will continue to love him. There's programs where he can meet people like him, and the way she phrases that makes him feel even more alienated than he already does. And still, he nods his head at it all and takes the pamphlets she gives him with a smile, because he doesn't want her to worry about him. 

He brushes off every attempt of Taylor's to try and talk to him in the car, not ready for her to be the first person he has to tell he has another issue. He doesn't ignore her, he just tells her that everything went fine and he doesn't really feel up for talking about it yet. 

He's not surprised at all that she invites herself into the apartment. As soon as they get in, he tells her that he's going out for a smoke. 

"I'll come with you," she says, standing up from where she was petting Dwight.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

He gives her a tired look. "It's cold outside and you don't have a coat. I'll only be ten minutes."

"Then get me a coat," she says, shrugging, and Harry knows her well enough to give up now. He does get her a coat, even though he kind of doesn't want to in a petty attempt to show her why she should've let him be. 

As usual, he goes to the side of the building and he smokes in silence, trying to give into the effects of weed. It's a little uncomfortable with Taylor out here with him, although she doesn't say anything. She keeps tracing something in the gravel with her boot. He doesn't tell her when he's ready to go inside, just tosses the joint on the ground and crushes it with his shoe and turns to leave. She follows him, sighing quietly.

"You hungry?" he asks once they get back to the apartment. He takes off his shoes and heads to the kitchen, and she does the same. 

Instead of answering his question, she asks, "So you do have it, then?"

He ignores the question as he goes through the fridge and pulls out leftover pizza from the other night. A part of him thinks she doesn't have a right to know, but that's not true. She's his best friend, and she also drove him to and from his appointment. 

"Yeah," he answers finally, shutting the microwave door. "She's pretty sure I do, anyway. I'm seeing her again in two weeks." He hits the thirty second button on the microwave before turning to her. "Do you think it makes sense?"

She hesitates. "Do I think what makes sense?"

"Do you think the diagnosis I got today makes more sense than me just having depression and anxiety?"

"I don't know," she says. "I don't -- no. Both make sense to me, I guess."

That isn't the answer he expected, or even wanted. He was waiting for her to say, _yeah, I always knew you were crazier than what Holly made you out to be._ It's half what he expects Louis to say, too. 

The microwave rings, and he ignores it. 

"It could be genetic," he tells her, remembering the way a part of his heart gave in when Dr. Sheldon told him that. "I could have the same fucked-ness that my dad did, which is, like -- fucking great."

"You're nothing like your dad, even if he did have Borderline." She sighs again as she takes off the coat Harry gave her. She sets it on the back of the kitchen chair. "I don't mean to be insensitive, Haz, but I think you're making this out to be a bigger deal than it actually is."

He flinches, not expecting her to say that at all. That's not fair. Any response he's having is normal, or whatever the fuck Dr. Sheldon said. "Thanks," he says sarcastically, scoffing. He turns to take the pizza out of the microwave, and he doesn't even want it anymore. "I just found out I'm crazy and you're -- "

"You're not crazy," Taylor interrupts. "You're not. And I just mean that you still have the same issues, and they have a different label now. That's not so scary, is it? It's not like you getting diagnosed officially means that your problems are going to get worse suddenly. You've always had it, right? You just didn't know what it was called."

That. . . is true. And it irritates him a little, because that's what was gnawing on his nerves so much, the fear that this was suddenly going to make his brain implode. It won't. It's not going to. Same problems, different name. Taylor's right. 

"I know," he says quietly, grabbing his plate off the counter. "But I'd rather not talk about it, if that's okay."

She nods, probably understanding that Louis will force him to dissect this all further later. 

-

Taylor was right: getting a new diagnosis doesn't suddenly bring him more problems. Same problems, different name now. Louis tells him generally the same thing that night, too, and he apologizes to Harry for pushing him into finding out if he had BPD or not. And Harry feels guilty as well, for putting more weight on Louis' shoulders, so he promises him that it was better to know. 

Same problems, different name. Nothing's abruptly changed. It's just perfect timing, the fact that he crashes into a hard depression not even a month later. 

He's grown a lot in the last few years, and with that growth he's picked up new methods of handling hard times. He forces himself to go to bed early and go to the gym at least four times a week, even when he's mentally exhausted. He tries to eat right, which usually lasts a few days, but the effort's still there. Most importantly, though, he keeps Louis filled in on everything, and he does his best to listen to Louis when he tells him that the world isn't ending, even if it feels like it is. 

He tries his hardest, which is why it's so defeating that it's still so difficult to get through. After a few weeks of him feeling like shit, he starts slipping even further; if going out of his way to fix things isn't fixing anything, then why should he keep doing it?

So he starts sulking, which is probably the worst thing for him to do. Keeping a positive mindset is actually helpful, no matter how many times he scoffs at Holly and tells her that it's not that easy. When he gives in, though, when he starts feeling sorry for himself and defeated and like the world is trying its hardest to stop him from keeping any kind of sanity, he really starts to do bad. It gets to the point that he stops talking to anyone that isn't Louis ( _co-dependent, co-dependent, co-dependent_ ) and starts smoking weed in the bathroom because it's too annoying to go outside two, three times a day. He's stoned near constantly, and he's irritable, and he calls into work twice without telling Louis. 

"Maybe we should try upping the dosage of your antidepressants," Louis suggests the night he comes home to see a rubber band around Harry's wrist when one hasn't been there in almost two years.

Harry shrugs. "Yeah, maybe. I don't know anymore."

"Hey," Louis says, frowning. He sits down beside Harry on the couch and nudges his knee with his own. "Don't give up on yourself, yeah? You'll get through it. You always do." 

Always did, before he went and got high on Valium every day for two months straight and before the BPD diagnosis that Holly almost refuses to acknowledge, which Harry hasn't told Louis about. He doesn't want to lose Holly, and if he told Louis that she 'personally disagrees' with Dr. Sheldon's diagnosis, then Louis might want him to. Dr. Sheldon even raised an eyebrow at that when Harry told her about it the last time he met with her. 

Things are just so different now, which is what he always convinces himself whenever he goes through a rough patch. 

It's when he leaves work early after completely exploding on Jordan for something, comes home, breaks down into a fit of tears on the kitchen floor and then gets completely fucked up on an edible that he decides he maybe needs to figure out how to get through this. (No, it's not. He does most of that often enough. It's during that time he's crying on the kitchen floor with Dwight sitting next to him, staring confusedly at the rubber band Harry flicks against his wrist so many times that it leaves a bright red mark, and he seriously, seriously thinks about going to the store and buying a pack of razor blades for the first time in a long time. He thinks about it occasionally, but it's always a distant, idle thought, and this time it wasn't. He would've hid the car keys from himself if he could have forgotten where he put them afterwards. He just doesn't tell Louis about that, so he doesn't want to admit to it.)

The problem with depression is, you can want to get through it all you want, but sometimes that isn't enough. 

If he's being honest with himself, he gets through because his body gets through it, not because of anything he did. Maybe sleeping more and smoking less helped, but he probably didn't have as much of a say in it as he hoped he would. Regardless, he reaches the first day where he doesn't wake up exhausted, and then the first two consecutive days that he doesn't cry, and then the first week where he doesn't have a panic attack. It's stupid, the fact that he has to be so appreciative of such small victories, but he is anyway. Louis is, too. 

-

It's towards the end-zone of that bad depression that Gemma brings up the idea of her, Steven and Natalie coming to London for a weekend. It's not like he'd tell her no, it's just. . . The last few months have been rough on him, and he doesn't want something new to stress over. Yeah, it's only a weekend, but he knows his sister well enough to figure she wants to see him at least a few times, and he doesn't want that right now. His mind is still recovering, and he's not all the way out of the woods yet, and that's -- he's just trying to prioritize his mental health, not use it as an excuse. Going through a depression like that is rattling and scary and it hurts his head to think about afterwards, when he's drifting in between being back to normal and not knowing what normal is anymore. You'd think after the amount of times he's gone through this, he'd be used to it by now, but he's not. 

Gemma doesn't stop texting him the week before they're due to come, and every time he sees her name on his phone he wants to scream a little, because he doesn't know what the best hotel to stay in London is, and no, he doesn't know how expensive it'll be, and yes, there's a decent amount of traffic here. He tried telling her politely that now isn't the best time for him, but she must've looked right over it, because it doesn't feel like she cares. 

_What's the best place to eat? Maybe we can go out for dinner on Saturday xx_

No, that won't be happening, because Louis works Saturday and Harry's not going by himself. He hasn't gone fucking anywhere by himself besides work and the gym in, like, two months. Louis makes him feel safe and calm, and Harry's not agreeing to a dinner knowing he won't be able to make it. 

"I'm still mad at her," Harry tells Louis that night, when they're laying in bed together with Dwight in between them. "For lying about Steven coming to my parents', for picking fights with my dad, for calling me selfish for not wanting to come to my dad's funeral. I don't feel like just letting that go."

Louis reaches over and squeezes Harry's wrist, his fingers staying to tug at the rubber band there. Harry's only wearing it for somewhat of a precaution; he hasn't had a serious urge to cut besides that one time, but he also is kind of in that mindset where he needs it anyway. He doesn't go crazy with it or anything, just flicking it against his skin occasionally. Jordan gave him a confused look for it the other day, but he didn't explain himself. 

"Her coming here is probably her attempt at an apology," Louis says, shrugging. "If you want an apology, I think you'll have to tell her that. She's going to pretend like nothing's wrong, and I think you'll either have to take that in stride or be the one to talk to her. Which isn't exactly fair on you, but."

But there's no other option, because Gemma and his relationship isn't healthy enough for apologies to be given when they're expected. He's sure Gemma's waiting on apologies from him, too, for things that he didn't even realize he did wrong. 

"I'm really tired, Louis," he whispers, turning to lay on his back. 

"Sleep, then."

Harry didn't mean that kind of tired, but he doesn't correct Louis on it, because he's pretty sure Louis' had to hear too much pity-me bullshit from Harry these last few weeks. He closes his eyes and lets out a soft sigh when Louis presses a kiss to the back of his hand. 

-

Natalie cries kind of a lot. 

It's not like she's a bad kid, or that Gemma and Steven are bad parents, she just -- cries. A lot. Over many different things. Like, all of the time. At one point, she is sitting in Harry's lap and bursts into tears when he asks her to get up so he can go to the bathroom, and the amount of annoyance he feels in that moment makes him definitely sure he's not ready for a kid yet. She's done crying by the time he gets back, though, and that makes him feel a bit better. 

He's been feeling kind of off all day. It's Saturday, and he doesn't work Saturdays, and he woke up in an empty bed, which always makes him a little too sad than what is probably normal. And when Gemma texted and asked if they could come over for a bit, his first instinct was to be annoyed because he told her beforehand that he would be busy this weekend, but after a second thought he agreed. Not because he missed his sister, or his niece, but because he was so lonely that it didn't matter who wanted to come over. He was considering texting Nick, who he hasn't talked to in a long time, even though he always means to call because he doesn't want him thinking it was his fault for the whole Valium thing. 

Harry's not much of a host, so he only heats up some frozen pizzas for them and offers them the Netflix selection for movies. As a kid, he never had anyone over aside from Louis, so he's still kind of bad at entertaining guests. Louis' usually here to make everything that he wants to do seem less weird. 

It's not awkward, though. He's almost certain it's not. Natalie acts as a good destroyer of awkwardness, because Steven and Gemma are always looking at her instead of him. 

After they finish eating, he's in the kitchen trying to make it look less of a mess before Louis gets home. Gemma follows after him, and she asks him how he's been doing lately. 

"Fine," he says, shrugging, as he puts a few dishes away. 

She laughs quietly. "Really? Because Louis told me to take it easy on you, and I kind of thought that meant you weren't doing so hot."

"I've had a rough few months, but I'm fine now." He gives her a small smile that quickly falls as he hears Steven telling Natalie not to pull on Dwight's tail. She has Theo at home, for God's sake, shouldn't she not know not to do that by now? Poor Theo. Poor Dwight. "Who's watching Theo?" Harry asks, not having thought about it before. Probably their mum, he thinks. 

Gemma doesn't answer, and immediately, Harry feels it in his gut what that falter means. 

His face goes hot almost instantly and he slowly sets the pan he's holding down on the counter. That's -- to be expected. Theo was old, and cats die. He knows that. He knows that, he does, but it still hurts kind of a whole lot. "How'd he die?" Harry asks quietly, his throat not being able to say it any louder. 

"It was in his sleep," she says, smiling at him sympathetically. "It was peaceful, I'm pretty sure. And I don't think he knew it was happening, because he was laying in the room with Steven and I and cats usually go away from everyone to die. I don't think he was in any pain. Really, Haz. I think it was peaceful."

"When?" he asks. 

"The end of January," she tells him, and Harry glares at her. He was expecting to hear that it was recent, that maybe she came to London to tell him in person or something, not -- not that it happened fucking months ago. Not that it happened before he went to Holmes Chapel. That's fucking bullshit, she -- _she's_ fucking bullshit. 

"Don't be mad," she says, "I didn't know how to tell you."

He shakes his head and scoffs at her. "That's bullshit. You should have told me _months_ ago."

"I didn't know if it'd be a bad time for you," Gemma says, like that makes it okay. 

"There's not a good time to tell someone their childhood pet died, is there?"

She sighs loudly. "Well, no, but I didn't want to accidentally tell you if you were in the middle of a rough patch and make everything worse for you."

"That's not your fucking decision to make," he snaps. He can't believe her. She hasn't even said sorry yet, fucking hell. She just told him not to be mad, like this isn't something he should be mad about. "I can't believe you."

"You're not the easiest person to talk to, you know," she says, nearly shouting. "How was I supposed to know how to tell you? You get so upset over the smallest things sometimes, and I -- "

"Don't fucking blame this on me, Gemma, what the _fuck._ "

"I'm not trying to," she says exasperatedly. She looks so stressed that Harry forces himself to take a step back and figure out if he's overreacting, and he doesn't think he is. She kept this from him, for _months,_ and then when asked why she blames it on the fact that he struggles with coping sometimes. That feels like a huge fucking slap to the face. 

"I want you to go," he says, forcing himself to sound calm. Her eyes widen and she scoffs, and before she can say anything, he says, "Yes, I'm serious. Please leave."

She doesn't fight him on it, which makes him believe that she realizes she could've handled this better. Despite that, she clearly isn't happy about it. He ignores her quiet anger and says goodbye to Natalie, who gives him a tight hug before planting a harsh kiss on Dwight's forehead and turning to her father. As they go, Steven's whispering to Gemma confusedly, probably trying to figure out what happened. 

As soon as the door clicks shut, Harry lights a joint and smokes it in the kitchen. Smoking in the house just this once won't be enough to hurt Dwight, but he puts him in their bedroom and shuts the door anyway. He smokes too much. It's going to be a problem eventually, probably. When Harry was absolutely blowing through his stash when he was depressed, he felt guilty for it and asked Louis if he wanted him to stop, if he was spending too much money on something stupid, and Louis had told him no, and that he should definitely cut back, but marijuana helps soothe his nerves in a safer way than other things he's reached for in the past. Still, it's annoying knowing he's so dependent on it. Maybe not addicted to it, but he definitely reaches for it too often. 

He decides that's a problem for another day and smokes his way into fucking oblivion, because he's far too scared to face the sadness of grieving Theo right now. It's a wimpy move, he knows it, but he doesn't care. Up until Louis comes home about an hour later and his nose wrinkles as soon as he steps inside the apartment. 

"I'm sorry," Harry huffs, sitting up. "I tried spraying Febreeze but it didn't really work."

Louis laughs quietly. "No, it didn't."

"I put Dwight in our room while I smoked. And I know that probably didn't work entirely, but I didn't feel like going outside."

"It's fine, love," Louis says, coming over to kiss him hello. Harry wraps his arms around Louis' hips and pulls him closer, resting his head on Louis' abdomen. Louis places his hands on Harry's shoulders. "You don't do it enough for me to complain."

Harry sighs quietly, squeezing Louis' hips. 

"How'd today go, then? With Gemma and them over? How big is Natalie now?"

"Theo's dead, Lou."

He didn't mean to say it like that. He didn't really have a plan, but -- that wasn't the way he wanted to say it. And he wanted to be in a place where he didn't immediately have tears springing to his eyes. 

"Oh, babe," Louis whispers, bending down to wrap his arms around his shoulders and to drop a kiss to his head. "I'm so sorry."

Harry clenches his eyes shut. "Just wish I could have seen him more, you know? I know we saw him in December, but. . . still makes me sad I couldn't say goodbye or anything."

Maybe it's stupid to feel so upset about losing a pet, one he hasn't lived with in over a decade. Maybe he did overreact, and maybe he still is. Louis doesn't make him feel like that, though. He makes him feel like it's okay to be sad about it. 

-

He reaches a point where everything going on is blocked from his head as soon as it tries to enter. Going back to Holmes Chapel, his father dying, his mother being angry at him, the Valium issue, the new diagnosis, and now Theo -- his brain is done taking requests while it shuts itself down to try and put out the fires already burning.

He's pretty sure this isn't another depression, but he's not sure that it isn't something else. It's like there's a wall that's been put up in his head and he's only allowed on one side of it, which is the side that isn't dealing with anything from the past few months. It's the side that deals with day-to-day activities, unless they become too stressful; in that case, it gets immediately tossed to the other side. 

That's how he thinks of it, anyway. It doesn't make sense to Louis, when he tries explaining it to him, so he settles for saying he kind of just feels numb. Disconnected from himself sounds too scary to admit to. 

He's almost certain this isn't the first time that this has happened. A lot of the stuff he goes through now is the same things he dealt with in his early to mid twenties, too, he just didn't understand any of it and drowned it out with booze and sex and self-harm. 

He's so fucking grateful for Louis. 

That's one thing he'll never lose sight of or forget or be able to pay back -- however you want to say it. He's pretty sure he would be living a very different life right now if he didn't have Louis or Taylor to deal with way too much of his shit for way too long. They helped him fix his life, even when he probably seemed like a loss cause or undeserving of it. They taught him that it was okay to not be okay so long as he wasn't fucking content with being not okay and tried to change it. The two of them helped him create a life in which he wants to live. He's certain that, with the way he was going before, there would have been a point where he realized how far deep in shit he was and he would have decided to give up. He would have. There was nothing to be afraid of missing out on, nobody he was afraid of hurting. 

It's probably why he's so constantly worrying about reaching a point with Louis where he's too much to handle. Something will go wrong and his first thought is, Louis doesn't deserve to have to deal with this. Maybe it's because he feels like he owes something to Louis he'll never be able to give him, or maybe it's because having a fear of abandonment is a trait of BPD. There's always that new thing sitting in the corner, raising its hand, saying, _yeah, you're welcome for that._

-

"Louis?"

He probably shouldn't right now. It's late. Well, early. Two-thirty in the morning. They both work in the morning, and the morning for Louis is in three hours. And they got in a fight earlier in the night, a proper one, because Louis had Zayn over for a few hours and Harry stayed in their room, not wanting to socialize tonight. He knew it was probably a little rude, but he didn't know how upset it'd make Louis. He didn't know that Louis would take it as him not caring about the things Louis cares about, and he certainly didn't think it'd lead to an argument about how this relationship is apparently too one-sided. 

("I love you, I do, but you do need to realize eventually that I am more than just the person you go to when you're sad or scared. I feel like we got past that, and now I'm back to feeling like you're using me a little."

Harry stared at him. "What?"

"Sometimes it feels like I'm just living in your world, Harry.")

They didn't go to bed angry. They talked it out, and Harry promised Louis that he'd try to keep his focus on what's important and Louis apologized for not telling Harry how he was feeling sooner. Still, it's left Harry feeling awfully insecure, because Louis' the one thing he can't lose. Everything else, everyone else, he could live with, but Louis. . . he won't let himself take him for advantage. 

He didn't know if Louis was still awake or not, but he is, because he mumbles out a quiet, sleepy, "What?" from his side of the bed. He shifts to look at Harry better, and Harry doesn't move his eyes from the ceiling. 

"I want to buy a house with you."

Louis lets out a tired chuckle. "Me too, H."

"And I want to get more cats with you. Maybe a dog, I don't know. I'd probably be bad at taking care of one since I've never had one, but we could figure it out."

"Yeah?" Louis asks, voice scratchy. Maybe he was sleeping, after all. 

Harry nods once. "And I don't know if I want kids. I don't know. And I know that's something you want, and I think it is something I want, too, but I don't think I'd be a good parent. But we're getting older, and that's -- I want to start talking about it more with you."

Louis' quiet for a few seconds, and then he asks, "Why are you thinking about all of this right now?"

"Because I was thinking about my future, and every bit of what I want down the line involves you in it." He takes a deep breath and turns his head to look at Louis, who looks a mix of confused and tired. "I don't want you to feel like you're living in my world, I want you to feel like you're living in _our_ world. And I want to start building that world with you."

"Now?" Louis asks, a small smile on his lips. 

Harry nods. "Yeah. Now."

"I mean, _right_ now? Because it's almost three in the morning." He lets out a laugh to let Harry know that he's only teasing before he scooches closer and wraps an arm around Harry's waist. Harry's only wearing boxers to bed, which is what he usually does now, but whenever he's feeling a little fuzzy in the head, he feels tens times more insecure about his scars than normal. 

"You need to go to sleep, love," Louis whispers, stroking his fingers over his hip. "We can talk about this more tomorrow."

"I want to."

"We will. Promise."

He hears it when Louis falls asleep, his breaths evening out and slowing down. Harry can't sleep, though. Doesn't want to. Imagining a proper life with Louis is better than anywhere his dreams could take him.

-

They do talk about it. Getting a house isn't a distant dream anymore; there's a realtor's phone number in his contact's list and dates of when they'll start looking at houses penciled into next month's calendar. They've made somewhat of a compromise in the price range, and Harry somewhat reluctantly agreed to looking at houses out of his budget and inside of Louis' budget instead. He has a decent amount of money to offer, but not nearly as much as Louis does. Louis wants a nice house with a patio and a huge kitchen, and he's more than willing to spend his hard earned money on it, and Harry's not going to tell him no just because it bruises his ego a bit. 

Everything else remains a plan for the future. Getting a dog, more cats, kids -- those are all pushed to the back of their minds, for now. They did decide they want a little, annoying rat dog, though, and kids will most likely happen eventually. Harry does want them, he's just. . . scared. So sure he'll be a bad father. Some days he wakes up in the middle of the night with the urge to tell Louis no, that he actually doesn't want them, but he always forces himself to go back to sleep without saying a word. 

It becomes a bit of an obsession for Harry, thinking about all this. The future seems a lot less stressful than what's going on, which doesn't exactly make sense, considering nothing's really happening right now and he's planning for a whole lot of something's to happen later. Still, it gives his mind something to focus on, and it's nice. It helps fight off the numbness that's still dulling his brain. And it's nice talking to Louis over dinner about the types of neighborhoods they might want to live in and talking just before bed about what they'll name their next cat. 

"Anything else you want to talk about?" Louis asks him one night. He's laying on the couch, socked feet on Harry's lap, with a glass of wine in his hands. "Any other big plans you've dreamed up?" He's teasing again, smiling softly at Harry. 

Harry nods and takes a sip of his own drink. "Yeah," he says, reaching down to squeeze Louis' ankle. "I kind of want to stop seeing Holly."

Louis gives him a long, long look. "Therapy's important for you," he says slowly. "I don't think you could handle not going to therapy."

"I didn't say I wanted to stop therapy, I said I wanted to stop seeing Holly." 

"Okay," Louis says, nodding. He looks visibly more relaxed. "Why?"

"She lost a lot of my trust for not knowing I had BPD," Harry admits quietly. It sounds a little stupid, saying it out loud, but it's true. He trusted her a lot, and now he doesn't anymore. "And I feel like I learn more about Borderline through Google than through her. She still," he sighs, "she still says she doesn't agree with Dr. Sheldon. But I do, I _really_ do, and I don't like us not agreeing on that."

Louis scoffs quietly and takes another sip of his wine. "How does a therapist disagree with a diagnosis?" he mutters, rolling his eyes. "If you don't think she's the best fit for you anymore, of course I agree you should look elsewhere." He gives him an encouraging smile, the ones that always feel like a pat on the head, and nods. "You thinking about sticking with Dr. Sheldon, then? Or do you want me to look into other people for you?"

"Dr. Sheldon's nice," he says quietly. He suddenly feels so small, and he doesn't know where it stems from, so he tries to ignore it. "I think I could get used to her. I've already seen her a few times, so. Shouldn't be too hard."

Louis nods before leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. He takes Harry's and does the same, and before Harry can ask why, Louis motions for him to come closer. Harry does, kneeing his way over to Louis and getting comfy next to him. He sets his head on his chest, and Louis squeezes his hip as he kisses the top of his head. 

"I love you, you know," Louis says. 

"I know. I love you, too."

"Good," Louis says, and Harry can hear the smile in his voice. "Because I'm going to ask you to marry me eventually, and I think it's important to get that bit down before I do it."

Warmth floods Harry's face at the thought of that, and he smiles shyly as he tucks it against Louis' chest. His fingers twist the bottom of Louis' jumper. 

"Promise I won't make it a big, public thing, unless you want me to," Louis says, and immediately, Harry shakes his head. 

"No, please don't. Want it to be just us."

Louis kisses the top of his head again. "Noted," he whispers.

-

It's oddly coincidental that Taylor tells him she's pregnant three weeks later. Louis and Harry have been talking more about kids lately, and now she's pregnant, and it's -- odd. For that reason, and because Harry didn't even know she was sleeping with anybody. 

She tells him after Harry's first official appointment with Dr. Sheldon as his new therapist. He didn't cut ties with Holly very nicely, he just left a voicemail at her office saying he wouldn't be going there anymore. He didn't want her to talk him into staying with him, because he's ninety-percent sure that Dr. Sheldon will be better for him. Taylor offered to take him to the appointment, joking that it was her duty to, and afterwards, she drove them to her house. Within five minutes, she was crying, telling him that she is pregnant. 

In times like these, when someone he cares for needs him to be the strong one for once, Harry forces himself to focus hard on being selfless and not getting scared off. It's so simple for some people, being able to comfort someone, but for Harry, he wants to run the other direction. It's almost like an instinct. And now that he's been through therapy and had some pointers for how to handle situations like these, he knows he has to keep calm and try to just be there for them in any way he can, and in ways that they have always been there for him. 

"Are you -- are these happy tears?" Harry asks her gently. He got up and hugged her as soon as she started to cry, and his chin is resting on the top of her head. He's happy for her, he knows she'll be a great mum, but it doesn't matter what he thinks, and he'll support her wholeheartedly in any direction she goes. 

She sniffles into his shoulder. "I don't know. Still haven't been able to figure that out myself."

"We'll figure it out, then. Have you gone to the doctor's yet?"

She shakes her head and lets out a shaky breath. He hates seeing her like this. He's pretty sure that's why it freaks him out when her or Louis or someone he trusts breaks down like this, because those are the people he relies on to keep him from breaking down himself. But he's stronger now, he can do this. He wants to be here for her, even if it's a little scary. 

"No," she says. "I took a test yesterday. And then two more last night, and another four this morning. They're all positive." She snorts quietly and squeezes him harder. "Well, except for the one I accidentally flushed down the toilet. Maybe that one was negative, I don't know."

"What -- Taylor." He laughs, and his throat feels tight. He hadn't realized he was crying until now. "A doctor will be a lot of help to you, I think."

"I know. I know. I have an appointment Saturday." That's in three days, and also a day that Harry rarely ever works. He's about to offer to come, stalling only because he doesn't want to overstep, when she whispers, "Will you come with me? Please?"

He squeezes her tightly again and nods. "Yes. Of course."

She lets out a sigh, one that sounds like it's out of relief, and it's a sign that Harry's doing something right. He just wants to do right by her. "I don't think I'm going to tell my mom until after the appointment," she says, and it scares him a little, the fact that she hasn't even told her mum but she's telling him. He figures he must be the only to know, or maybe he's not. Maybe whoever the father is knows already, or maybe he doesn't. 

Harry doesn't even know who it could be. It's -- over the years, Harry's met a few of her friends, but usually in passing and never well enough to catch on to an unspoken sign that she's sleeping with one of them. (And that's probably not fair. He should ask to meet her friends, properly. She knows all his friends, knows them in and out practically by now, and he doesn't even have a guess at who the father could be.) He wants to ask who, but he knows that she'll tell him on her own or she won't, and if she doesn't, then he doesn't have a right to ask. 

"That's okay," he replies finally. "That's fine, Tay. We can take this however slow you want."

She nods against his shoulder, and then she's quiet for some time. He doesn't pressure her to say anything, just stands there with her and holds her, only being distracted by her cats walking around. Eventually, she says, "I feel like such an idiot, Harry." She pulls away from him and smiles thinly before crossing her arms over her chest. "I can't believe I let this happen. It's like -- I want kids, of course I do, but I wanted to be settled down with someone before, I -- I wanted to know the person I had kids with would want -- " her voice breaks and she looks down, and Harry presses a gentle hand to her shoulder. "He's not going to want this. I know he won't."

"Doesn't matter what he wants or doesn't want," Harry tells her sternly. "You can do this by yourself, if that's what you want to do. You have your own house, and you have your own money, and whoever the dickhead is that doesn't want a part of that doesn't need to." He shrugs. "And you wouldn't be alone, not really. You'd have me. And your mum and your friends and everyone else, of course, but I -- I'll be here for you in any way you need me to be."

She goes quiet again for a few minutes before saying, "That's the thing, H." She looks up at him, eyes shining and cheeks wet. "I don't know if I'd want to raise a kid here. I always figured I'd do it back home, close to my family."

And that hurts. It hurts a lot. He didn't even think about it, and the idea of her and her baby being so far away from him is -- he doesn't even like driving three hours to see his niece without Louis. He can't drag Louis to America every time he wants to see Taylor. But that's -- he could suck it up. He'd have to. Harry could stop being so goddamn dependent on everyone but himself and fly to Tennessee at least every few months if that meant getting to see Taylor, his very best friend in this whole stupid fucking world. 

"American schools are shit," he whispers, voice cracking only slightly. "But I know you're not going to go and raise a dummy, so I suppose it'd be worth the risk."

She looks relieved, even more so than she sounded when she asked if he'd come with her to the appointment. It's probably hard to believe, Harry not freaking out and making this about him by the mere idea of her moving. 

"Nothing's for sure yet," Taylor says. "I don't -- this could all be some stupid, confusing mistake. Let's just wait and see what the doctor says before deciding anything."

Harry nods. "Yeah. You're right."

There's so many questions he wants to ask. If she is going to move, when? Is there anything he could do to make her happier here than she would be in Tennessee? Who is the father? Has he met him before? Is he an asshole? Are they a thing, or was it a one-night kind of deal? Is she going to be happy? Is she going to be okay?

He doesn't ask any of that, because she's finally stopped crying and he doesn't want to risk setting her off again. All he wants is for her to be happy. 

-

They find out Taylor's five weeks pregnant, and during the entire appointment, she crushes his hand in hers. He doesn't pull away at all. 

There's an awkward moment early in the appointment when the doctor asks if Harry's the father, and Harry's quick to say no. Too quick, judging by Taylor's hurt expression and soft scoff. He apologizes for that later, when they're laying in her bed eating french toast that she cooked with her cats at their feet. She keeps sniffling, though she stopped crying after she got off the phone with her mum about an hour ago. 

"Who is the dad, though?" Harry asks, and afterwards he apologizes. He just has to know. Louis told him last night that he probably shouldn't ask, that she probably hasn't told him for a reason, but he can't help himself. 

She sighs tiredly. "His name is Logan. You don't know him."

"Oh." 

Logan. That's all he knows, a first name, and he's already betting on the fact that he's some terrible, low-life, piece of shit who didn't deserve to be with Taylor at all, let alone have a child with her. 

She sighs again, looking down at her plate. She's barely eaten half of it. "He's a receptionist at my firm. We hooked up once, a long time ago. And he was a total prick about it. But then," she pauses, and Harry scoots closer and bumps his knee against hers. "There's was this stupid work party, and he and I started talking. One thing led to another, and, well. You know what happened after that." She motions to her stomach and bites down on her lip. 

"Have you told him?"

She nods. "I told him yesterday that I was pretty sure I was pregnant, and he made it clear that he wants absolutely nothing to do with it."

"What an idiot," Harry says, scoffing. "Doesn't matter. Either way, whatever you decide -- he doesn't matter. You're the most capable person I know to handle a kid by yourself."

She smiles at him, and it's a real smile. He can by the way her eyes crinkles at the sides. "You don't know very many people, so I don't know how much of a compliment that is. But thanks, I guess."

He nudges her knee again, smiling softly. The tight ball of anxiety that has been sitting in his stomach since this morning loosens slightly, because he knows she'll be okay. She will. He's going to make sure of it, because he loves her and wants the best for her, but also because he always told himself that if ever had the chance to repay her for what she did for him, and he's pretty sure this is the time he can try. 

-

The next time he works, he's working with Jordan all day again. It's fine, he has nothing against her, it's just. He used to work by himself most of the time. If it was close to a holiday, Anna would help out. He's comfortable around her, and he's mostly comfortable around Jordan and knows that he'll need her during the summer months, but he likes to do things by himself. And she's not like him the way that he likes to keep quiet and to himself. He knows way too much about her personal life.

He's putting together a bouquet for Taylor in the back when Jordan walks in. It's not busy, so there's no real harm in her being back here with him. Maybe she needs something, or maybe she has a question. He gives her a distracted nod of acknowledgement before looking back down. 

"You're not wearing that rubber band today," she says, in a way that's hesitant, like she knows she shouldn't be asking but she's too curious not to. Like how Harry sounded when he asked Taylor about the father of the baby. 

He doesn't look up at her. There's no point in peaking her interest; he'd never open up to a relative stranger about the scars underneath his clothes that he tries his hardest to keep as just scars. "No, I'm not."

She pauses, and then asks, "What is it for?"

"Someone should be out front, and I'm doing something, so."

"Yeah, I know, I'll go back out in a second, just -- I don't know. Are you okay, I guess? I think that's what I mean to ask."

She's young and naive and is the type of person to never feel like someone is overstepping. And she's not, he guesses. Overstepping. She's not. It's not wrong to ask someone if they're alright. It's never wrong. It is a tad annoying, though. 

"I'm fine," he says, and he even turns his head to offer her a brief smile. 

"Anna told me to try to leave you be," she says, kind of sternly, like she's determined to get whatever out of him she's trying to get. "When I first started working here, she told me that. She said that you're quiet and a bit standoffish, and to not let me think that means you're a jerk, because you're not. She said you're one of the kindest people she knows, and that she was pretty sure that you've had a rough go at things."

"You didn't listen to her very well, then," he says, not unkindly, with a small laugh. He didn't know Anna said all that to her, and he sort of doesn't like it, but there's nothing he can do about it now. Maybe it's better than Anna warned Jordan that he was just quiet and not a jerk. He wouldn't want her thinking of him as a rude person, even if he doesn't like to work with her all that much. 

"You had a panic attack," she continues. "A few weeks ago."

He sighs and turns around to look at her. She looks worried, and that's stupid. He's fine. He doesn't need some kid to worry about him. Not because he doesn't appreciate it, but because she's young and he doesn't want to tamper with the sparkle she sees on the world. "I did, yeah. I have them a lot. It's not a big deal. I'm okay."

"But -- "

"Jordan," he says calmly. "I'm fine. Seriously. You're kind for caring, but I promise, I'm fine."

She lets out a deep exhale and nods shortly. "Okay. Good. I'll go back out front, then."

"Okay," he says. She stands there for a second before nodding again and turning to leave. He watches her go, and just before she reaches the door, he says, "Hey, Jordan?"

She pauses and glances back at him. 

"Don't ever be too scared to ask someone if they're okay," he tells her, even though that's something he could never do himself. "You never know, they might really need it."

She lets out a relieved sound and smiles. "I won't," she says, nodding. "I won't."

She leaves, and he doesn't miss the loud sigh of relief she lets out when she thinks the door has fully closed behind her. 

-

No matter how many good days in a row he has, or how much sleep he's gotten, or whatever mood he went to bed in, there are still days that feel like the world and Harry aren't compatible. And whenever that strikes, whether it be in the form of a panic attack or a random bad mood, a flood of unexplained tears or an urge to harm the only body he's got, it always leaves him confused, like it's the first time it's ever happened even though it's happened many times in the past and will occur many times in the future. 

At three-o'clock in the morning three weeks later, it comes in the form of a nightmare. It's random and it's too bloody and it wakes him up in the middle of the night, wondering why the hell he's still having nightmares about his father when he's long dead and gone. (He doesn't have nightmares a lot, but when he does, they usually repeat themselves. This one, the one where he has to stop his dad from hurting them all but no matter what weapon he uses -- scissors, knives, tools he doesn't know the name of -- it always punctures and never kills. No matter what, his dad keeps coming for them, and Harry fails.) It's so confusing to him. So stupid. He doesn't understand why his brain or mental health or whatever else just doesn't stay the way he wants it to. 

For years, so many people told him that life would be better if he tried more, if he wanted it to and did something about it. And they were right, they were, but none of them warned him of the moments like this. Moments where he feels so attacked because his head decided to do something to hurt him again. 

He wakes Louis up when he jolts up in bed, and he's about to tell Louis to go back to sleep before he realizes how hard his hands are shaking and he lets himself be folded into Louis' side. Harry feels nauseous, like he might puke or maybe faint, even though he knows he won't do either. 

"Bad dream?" Louis asks, rubbing his shoulder. And times like these Harry wishes Louis needed him to take care of him in any way. Louis can exist without Harry, but sometimes, it doesn't feel like Harry can exist without Louis. He's pretty sure he couldn't. And he knows that that's unhealthy, and he knows that it's selfish to want Louis to hurt sometimes in ways that Harry could fix. But he also knows that he's getting help and guidance to handle things like this, and the next time that Dr. Sheldon brings up that he's too codependent on Louis -- because yes, she thinks that, too, and she caught onto it pretty fast -- he can mention this and she can help him.

Harry nods against Louis' chest. "It was stupid," he says, voice tired. "I'm fine. Just feel super out of it."

So Louis holds him and holds him and Harry tries his hardest to put his head back together. And it doesn't work, not really, because an hour later, Harry's jolting up from another bad dream and Louis' shushing him and holding him again, and offering to cancel the house showing tomorrow if Harry's not feeling up for it. Harry shakes his head and tells him it's fine, because a long time ago, someone told him that he can't keep giving days away because he's feeling bad. He doesn't remember who it was, but they were right. 

"Are you sure you don't want to cancel?" Louis asks, staring at Harry, who's barely spoken a word all morning. It's not because of the dreams. It's not. He just feels off. It's not a big deal. He's not going to cancel a showing of a house that might be their forever home just because he feels a little off. 

"I'm fine," Harry says, smiling even as he presses his hands harder against his coffee cup, trying to absorb the heat it brings. "Seriously. Head's a bit fuzzy, but I'm alright."

Louis trusts him and lets it go after asking Harry to please just tell him if he's not feeling up to it. And an hour before they're supposed to leave, Harry's head is a little clearer, like the clouds are giving way to the sun, and then they have sex, which Harry doesn't really know what led to it, but it leaves him feeling a lot better and a little sore. 

"You think this is going to be the one?" Harry asks as he pulls into a side street, only a few blocks away from the house they're seeing. He's driving even though Louis almost always is the one to drive, because sometimes he needs to remind himself and Louis that he's capable of things like this. 

"No," Louis says, catching Harry off guard. Harry laughs as Louis shrugs. "I don't know. Seems like a stiff neighborhood. Too posh, I think."

"Your budget is asking for posh," Harry reminds, and Louis sighs a little and mumbles something underneath his breath about how his sisters would think he's a spoiled brat for moving into a neighborhood like this. It's not even _that_ fancy -- they aren't looking for mansions, or anything -- but it's more expensive than anything Louis would have let himself dream of having as a child. 

"You're not spoiled," Harry tells him. "You worked your butt off to get here. You were away from your family for years to make sure you got this life, for yourself and for them. If anyone's getting spoiled here, it's me." 

Louis reaches over and squeezes his knee, maybe as a thank you, or maybe as a reminder that Louis' totally okay with spending more than Harry on the house. 

The realtor, a man named Craig with a boxy blazer on, is nice enough. Like with everybody else they meet when they're together, Harry shies away a bit because he's uncomfortable and Louis overcompensates to take the focus off Harry so he can try to relax, and Louis looks charming and amazing and Harry is just there, a step behind Louis, metaphorically and literally hiding behind him a little bit. Harry's almost positive he'll never completely get over his social anxiety, and he's okay with that, but the problems that it will lead to down the line make him nervous. He doesn't want their kids, if they do have some, thinking he's weird or getting angry that he can't carry a conversation with guests they might bring over. 

The house is fine. Harry wouldn't have a problem living here, although he does agree with Louis that the layout is a bit awkward and the yard is a little small and the patio isn't anything interesting. Harry wonders if there's a deeper story to why Louis' so fixated on getting a nice patio. He'll have to ask later. 

This house is a no, but it does make Harry excited to find the one that will be a yes. 

-

Harry attends every single one of Taylor's appointments, and it always feels worth it, like he's doing the right thing. He genuinely enjoys being there. At the eighth week appointment where they finally get to see an ultrasound, it feels like this is all he's been waiting for. A dark, cloudy blob sitting on a screen that they get to stare at. It seems stupid, kind of, to get so emotional to a literal clump of cells that the doctor vehemently claims looks like anything other than a shapeless blob. It's not even his kid, and that so doesn't matter because that's his best friend's kid, and he loves her and he loves the shapeless black thing that's got them both crying that's supposed to be a baby. 

In that moment, when he's crushing Taylor's hand (or she's crushing his, he can't even tell anymore) and they're both crying, he thinks that he wants this all with Louis. He does want it kid. It doesn't matter if there's a possibility of him being a bad parent. He can't let that scare him off. Louis won't be a bad parent, and Louis can show him the way if he's doing something wrong. He wants this with Louis. 

He doesn't think anything could make him want a kid with Louis more than seeing the first ultrasound, until Taylor starts showing. Thirteen weeks in, she sends him a photo of her standing sideways in front of a mirror with the text, _hoolllyyy shit, will you still love me when i'm proper fat?_ It's a little bump, barely anymore than a slope that could still probably be blamed on too much Taco Bell. And yet it's enough to make him start crying in bed at seven in the morning, and he laughs when Louis asks if he's okay, because yes, he is. He's more than okay, because Taylor is happy and healthy and so is her baby, and Harry wants kids and he's not scared of that anymore. 

_I'll love you even more xx,_ he texts back, after showing Louis the picture. Louis' too tired to do anything other than smile and mumble hoarsely that he's happy for her.

Harry's heart feels the warmest than it has in months. 

-

She's having a little girl, they find out, and it should probably be just as exciting as the first ultrasound and the first glimpse at a bump, and it is, it's just -- Logan's here. Logan thought he could decide to come to the first appointment in twenty weeks and steal this moment from her, and Taylor let him. And he barely smiles when the doctor announces the sex, and he doesn't cry, and Harry absolutely hates him. 

Earlier, when Taylor got around to Logan's house, Logan actually faltered before getting in the backseat of her car and asked if it was really necessary for Harry to come. It made Harry so mad, and about a hundred different and equally creative insults flooded his head. He didn't say them because he's still a chicken shit when it comes to strangers, but Taylor chewed him out for the first five minutes of the ride, and it felt a little bit more okay. 

"I only let you come so I could tell our child that I gave you a shot and you still fucked off," Taylor said, her fingers tight as a vice around the steering wheel. "And if you have a problem with Harry here, you need to fuck right off because he's been here more for me these past few weeks than anybody else, so just." She sighed loudly. "So just be quiet."

Harry has been there for her, in absolutely every single way she needed and then some. He's spent a handful of nights at Taylor's, one of them including the night she called him crying because she didn't think she could do this. Louis doesn't mind it, he understands completely and wants Taylor to feel supported, and it's -- Harry always knew he had a compassionate, loving boyfriend and an amazing best friend, but lately he's been realizing it more and more, and he's so goddamn thankful for all of it. 

He's still pretty sure he didn't do anything to deserve them. If anything, he deserved to have both of them turn their backs on him. Maybe not Taylor, he didn't do anything especially awful to her, but he did with Louis, multiple times. He screwed up with Louis over and over and over and over and Louis somehow forgave him after all that. Louis somehow decided he was worth the years of hard work and stress, and then wound up loving him, too, and that's hard to understand. Even now, Harry still doesn't feel like he tries enough with either of them to have them love him as much as they do. 

They're proof that not everyone is bad, and that was once something he truly believed. 

-

It's the fourth house they tour that they immediately fall in love with. 

It has the hardwood floors, and the glossy countertops in the kitchen, and a large backyard. It has Louis' patio. Harry's been sort of passive about this, not ever saying no definitively as Louis, but this one is a yes. Such a yes that he's going to fight for it if he has to, which he doesn't, because Louis catches his eye while they're walking through the basement and gives him a short nod, a small, knowing smile on his face. It almost feels like a secret. 

Louis talks about mortgages and purchasing prices and inspections with the realtor while Harry pretends to be interested in a set of cabinets nearby. He's not even listening anymore, not with how guilty he feels with not being able, or not being willing, maybe, to contribute to the conversation. Louis knows more about all this stuff than him, anyway. At least, that's what he's using to soothe himself.

All of this -- the distancing, the not talking, the way he walks behind Louis -- is almost always done subconsciously now. It's not this huge thing he thinks through, it's just what he does. It's what he trained himself to do. To be. He puts up a docile but hard front, and he tries to make himself invisible. It's just what he does. It's what he's always done. Today, he's more aware of it because he knows he is probably disappointing Louis a little by not participating. 

Louis doesn't mention it in the car. Instead, they talk about the house, about what comes next, and the more and more Louis talks about scary-sounding things, the more Harry feels himself drawing back from everything. He's excited. He's happy. He wants this life with Louis, but that doesn't mean that he isn't feeling a little scared. And Louis recognizes it, even though Harry tries his hardest to stay with Louis and smile and nod and agree in all the right places. Louis kind of quiets down, probably trying to give Harry the space Harry wished he didn't need. 

These are the worst parts. The times when Harry wants to be loud and cheerful and play at Louis' speed, and he can't. It feels impossible. And it's not even like he's feeling overly anxious or depressed or any of that, it's just. Disconnected, kind of. Fading away into the background. It's so stupid. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly once they get inside of their flat. He doesn't even quite understand what he's apologizing for, he just knows that he's ruined Louis' mood in probably more ways than one. 

"Don't be." Louis gives him a small, polite smile as he hangs up his coat and pats Dwight on the head. Harry follows behind him, feeling absolutely miserable for no goddamn reason. He tries to reason with himself; no matter how much he wishes he could, he can't pick his bad days, and the only thing he can try to do is limit how long it sticks around for. Louis understands that. He understands that Harry feels guilty for it, too. 

"You gonna go out and smoke, then?" Louis asks, and he doesn't sound judgmental. No, not judgmental. Maybe a little dismissive, though, or maybe somewhat bored, which is fine. Harry's not mad, or anything. It is what it is. 

"Um, yeah. I was going to. Try and clear my head a bit." 

"Okay. I'll probably call my mum."

Louis' upset, he is, and he's trying his hardest not to let it show, but it is anyway. 

"Okay," Harry says. "Tell her I say hi, yeah?"

Louis nods stiffly, and then he says, a little hesitant, "She'd rather hear it from you. If -- if you don't take too long outside, maybe you can talk to her a bit."

"Yeah. Maybe."

Louis shrugs with a small, defeated smile. "It's fine. Go do your thing, yeah? Try not to think too much."

This shouldn't be so habitual. Such a routine. But it is, and Harry goes after grabbing a joint and kissing Louis' cheek. He wants to stall outside in an attempt to avoid the conversation with Louis' mum altogether, but he doesn't allow himself to. He spends ten minutes outside, smoking with his eyes closed, trying to think of things that make him happy, and when that doesn't work, trying to think of nothing at all. Ten minutes is all he gives himself, and then he goes back to their flat, and Louis' laying in bed with his shirt off, and he's not on the phone with his mum. 

"She not answer?" Harry asks, slipping his own t-shirt off. He'd take his pants off, too, but he doesn't feel like seeing the scars right now. He gets into bed with Louis even though it's much too early to, and he snuggles into Louis' side without waiting for an invitation. 

"She did," Louis says. He drops his hand to Harry's waist and curls his fingers around him. "She couldn't talk long. Had to take someone to somewhere."

"I'll call her tomorrow, before work. Promise."

"You don't have to."

Harry shakes his head. "I know. But I want to. Haven't talked to her in ages."

Louis answers with a small noise of acknowledgment and a shrug. It's quiet for a few minutes, and then Louis asks if the weed helped, and Harry nods. It almost always does. Whether it be because of the affirmation that Harry's feeling a little better mentally or something else, Louis starts to kiss him in his way that clearly asks for sex, and Harry responds with his kisses that clearly communicate a similar want. They have sex, and it's nice, and it helps further remove the haze in Harry's head that didn't have a right to be there in the first place. 

Afterwards, when they're still coming down and Louis' sleepy and warm against his back, Harry mumbles something about the house against Louis' arm. Louis sighs softly, the breath hitting the back of Harry's neck. 

"We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to," Louis whispers. He sounds hurt, like Harry shattered his hopes and dreams earlier. "If this is too much, too fast, or even if it's not, even if you just want to stay here for a while more, that's okay. We're okay here."

It sounds tempting, staying here. It shouldn't. He really shouldn't. He was and still is excited about moving to a house with Louis, and yet the idea of staying here, in familiarity and comfort, sounds equally as good now. A move is always stressful, and they're going to be making a huge financial investment together, and that all sounds really scary right now. 

He hooks his chin over Louis' arm and says, "I want us to live in that house. I do. I don't know what's wrong with me today. I promise, Lou, I want it."

"I want it, too."

Louis presses a soft kiss to the back of his neck, and Harry shuts his eyes and holds onto him that much harder. 

\- 

"I'm moving back to Tennessee next month."

That's not how she says it. Some variation of that, yes, but that's not verbatim what she originally said. Truth is, he doesn't remember the first half of that conversation. He was too busy trying desperately to remain calm and selfless and everything opposite of what he was actually feeling. His best friend is leaving for another country. She's going to have her baby in Tennessee, and he's not going to be there for the birth, and he's probably not going to see Taylor or her baby until a few months after she's born. 

The baby won't know Harry very well, and something cruel in the back of his head is telling him that's what her goal is. 

She tells him, he nods too many times and smiles too much and tells her yeah, no, he gets it, it's fine. He understands. He says that about twenty times. And when she apologizes to him with tears in her eyes for leaving him, he makes a promise that he's not so sure he can keep. He tells her that he'll be fine. And he probably will be, and he's probably blowing this out of proportion like he does with everything else, but his heart hurts and his mind is racing and being okay with his best friend moving away from him doesn't sound like a possibility right now. 

"I think I'm going to go," he says abruptly, right after she apologizes the second time. He lets go of her hands and stands, and she stands after him. 

"Please don't. Please, just stay."

He can't. He really can't. He has kept his cool for her sake, but he needs a long, hard cry right about now, and it's past its due date. He needs to leave. "I have a thing with -- "

She interrupts him. "No, you don't. Just stay." 

"I want to go home," he says truthfully, not looking at her. He's walking to the door, and he realizes as he's shoving his shoes on that he left his coat in her room and it has his phone in the pocket, but he's not going to turn around and go get it. He's panicking, and his one goal here is to try and put Taylor on the impression that he's okay with all this, and he's failing. So he needs to go. 

She says a lot of other things as he opens her door and makes his way down the porch, all of which turn to noise in his ears. He's running away, he knows he is, and he knows he's probably scaring her right now, it's just. He can't be here right now. He really can't. 

"Go straight home," she says, just as he's opening his car door. "I'm not going to make you stay, but please go straight home. And don't do anything stupid."

She sounds so worried, God. He's stressing out a pregnant lady. 

All the more reason to leave. 

He nods, which isn't enough for her because she says it again, but by that time, he's shutting the door and putting his keys in the ignition. The intelligent, matured side of him is aware that he should not be driving right now, not with how hard he's shaking (and he's not even talking about his hands, which are shaking, too; his insides feel like they're shaking harder than them). But he presses his foot on the gas and drives, anyway. He figures maybe he'll stop somewhere, a store or maybe just a parking lot. It doesn't matter. He doesn't have a plan, except that he purposely goes to a fast food parking lot because he knows himself and knows that if he went to a store, grief disguised in curiosity would get the better of him, and he'd go and find out if that store sells razor blades, and, well. You know how that one ends. 

The little meltdown he has in his car is one of the times that he scares himself. He doesn't even -- it's a blur, except that it's not, and he doesn't really want to admit to the way he scratches his wrist so hard that it bleeds, and not to soothe or distract himself, but to hurt. He wants to hurt. Hurting this way is better than dealing with the fact that Taylor, the woman who single-handedly got him on his feet and helped him stay there. Maybe not, maybe it was more complicated than that, but he can't think properly right now and his wrist is hurting but not enough. It's not enough. 

He'd call Louis right now, he'd ask him to come get him because he's shaking and crying so hard, too hard, but he doesn't have his phone. He was stupid. He should've taken the time to grab his phone. Now they probably think he's going to kill himself, which is tiring at this point but still a fair concern, one that he will never shame or blame them for having. He's going to scare the absolute shit out of Louis; undoubtedly, Taylor called Louis as soon as Harry left, and now they're probably freaking out over him together. 

He wishes he wasn't like this. He wishes the self-awareness he has would lead him to having self-control, too, but that's not always the case. And he's not trying to be impulsive or irresponsible or a burden or whatever the fuck, he's not trying to not take accountability, it's just -- hard. And he's made his wrist bleed more and he keeps thinking about the lighter he has in his glove department and he really, really wants Louis. He wants him so bad. 

He sits in his car panicking and crying and scratching his fucking skin away for an hour and a half. At the forty-five minute mark, he gets out his lighter and throws it as hard and as far as he can out his window. He's not going to fucking burn himself again, now or ever. 

He shouldn't be reacting this way. There's no reason for it. So many other things have happened this year, and none of them probably warranted this much of a reaction, either, but he thinks it'd make more sense at other times, like when Theo died or after he came clean about the Valium with Louis. It's probably because he knew this was coming and was absolutely dreading it, or maybe it's because he didn't let himself feel it when his body and mind wanted him to. He should've cried to Taylor; she would have felt guilty, yes, but she probably feels guilty now, anyway. Maybe if he did it that way, or maybe if he just grabbed his phone on the way out, he wouldn't have blood running down his arm right now. He doesn't even have a coat to hide it. 

It's not that much blood. More than you'd probably think possible to draw from scratching, but nothing near the amount a cut with a blade produces. His entire wrist and then some is bright red and raised in some areas, and he can't help himself from digging his blunt nails back in. It's so bad. Louis' going to be so mad. 

At the hour and five minutes mark, though, he tries his hardest to talk himself down. He needs to get home to Louis, because at this point, Louis is probably worried sick. He wants to see him, too, but he needs Louis to see he is okay. It takes him a long time to be sure he's in a safe enough mindset to drive, but the minute he thinks he can handle it, he starts to make his way home. 

At every red light, he scratches over the same spots again. And there's enough red lights for him to start to hate himself a little bit for reacting like he did. After the moment's over, he always feels so irritated with himself. It doesn't help that he knows Louis' going to be upset with him in some form, too. He deserves it, of course he does, but it still sucks. 

He walks to their flat with his arms crossed, so the scratch marks are pressed against his abdomen and not showing to anyone else. As he stands by the door, breath shaky and arm still bleeding, he feels like he's about to confess to someone else's crimes. Louis' probably going to ask why, and he doesn't have an answer. 

There's muffled voices coming through the door. He has to concentrate on it to make it out, but he hears Louis snap, "For fuck's sake, Taylor, I fucking know, okay? But he'd fucking kill me if I called the police on him. He felt so betrayed the last time that I did it."

"He can't be mad at you if he's fucking dead."

He wishes Taylor wasn't here. It's hard enough having to be this much of a mess in front of Louis (but who is he kidding? He doesn't have a choice) and doing it in front of Taylor sounds so much worse. Still, he gets the keys in the door and pushes it open. 

Louis' still wearing his scrubs. They've both clearly been crying. And what makes it worse is they don't even look all too relieved to see him. They just look really, really tired. 

"Did you cut yourself?"

It takes a second for Harry to realize who said it, and that's another indicator of how bad he's feeling. It was Louis, though. Taylor looks too angry to ask. 

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. He's lightheaded. He needs to sleep, after a hot shower and love from Louis that he doesn't deserve. The blood has smeared on his forearm and stained his shirt, so it looks worse than it actually is. "Just scratched."

"Where did you go?"

That was Taylor. He's far too disoriented, and for no real reason. 

"A parking lot, I don't -- " he pauses, trying to rid the feeling like he's not talking right even though he recognizes he sounds the same. "I think I just want to talk to Louis. I don't -- yeah. Please." He rubs his fists against his eyes, trying to figure out why he feels so spacey, and why this feeling only comes occasionally. He's not going to fucking mention it to Dr. Sheldon, though, because he refuses to be diagnosed with something else. He absolutely refuses. 

Taylor looks furious. "You can't do that to me and then -- "

"Tay," Louis interrupts gently, shaking his head. It dawns on Harry now that neither of them have touched him yet. Neither of them have moved from their spot. "He's clearly not feeling well. Don't push him. Just go, okay? I'll call you after he's settled down."

Taylor looks to Louis and gives him a face like he's been unfair, and Louis scoffs. "He's got blood fucking everywhere, and he looks like he's seconds away from falling apart entirely, so please just -- go. Leave. And try not to stress out over him too much, because he's fine and," he sighs. "And stress isn't good for the baby."

Taylor agrees to leave, and she doesn't say goodbye before she leaves, not like she normally does. She says goodbye, but she doesn't kiss him on the cheek or squeeze his shoulder or anything. She just goes. And then he has Louis looking at him all soft and worried and maybe a little scared, too. Harry has to try to fix this, so he takes a deep breath. 

"I don't know," he says. "I don't know why I panicked so much, I just did, and I didn't mean to leave my phone, and I -- I feel really wrong, and I'm not trying to worry you because I'm sure I'll be fine after some sleep, I just -- and I didn't do anything other than scratch myself, and it's not that bad, even though it looks like a lot of blood, I swear it's not, I think it's just because it got smeared around, and it's probably -- " he takes a long, steadying breath. "And I almost burned myself, but I didn't, and I don't think I would have, but I thought about it too long and I just thought I should tell you."

Louis looks so overwhelmed. Of course he does. He doesn't have all the answers. He shouldn't have to come home early from work due to a fear of Harry being dead or at the very least gone, and he most certainly shouldn't have to try to figure out what to do with him afterwards. Harry tried to show him he was okay, and he couldn't, probably because he's not.

"I'm sorry I'm such a headcase," Harry whispers, voice shaking. "I really am. And I'm sorry this past year has been so bad."

Louis looks like he wants to dispute one of those things, or maybe both, but he doesn't. Instead, he asks, "Will you let me clean you up, please?"

"I can do it myself, it's okay."

"I know you can, darling. Let me help, though, alright?"

Harry nods once. For the first time since he's been back, Louis looks slightly relieved. He motions for Harry to follow him and heads to the bathroom, and Harry does. Dwight meows at him when he passes their bedroom, and it makes him want to smile. 

Louis sits him down on the toilet seat, already heaving the antiseptic wipes out. He smiles at him kindly as he bends down in front of him. It sends a wave of panic down Harry's throat. This is how they used to do it, when Harry was a teenager and getting the shit kicked out of him and going to Louis for help. It's exactly how they used to do it, down to the way Louis pauses for a few seconds after Harry winces, and it's too scary to think that he's back where he was, so he stops Louis by wrapping him in a hug. 

Louis holds him back just as tightly, and he doesn't sigh or groan or anything like that when Harry starts to cry. It feels nice, almost. He hasn't cried of Taylor leaving yet. The crying he did in his car was over something entirely different, something he doesn't even understand himself yet. 

"I'm gonna get good again," Harry promises in a whisper. "I don't know how this year managed to be so shitty for me, but I'm gonna fix it. I'll stop being like this, I will, just please, don't -- “ He cuts himself off, not being able to say it. 

"Please don't what, babe?"

"Don't give up on me. Please."

Louis kisses the top of his shoulder. "I would never, love. So long as you don't ever give up on yourself." Another kiss. "Even then, I wouldn't give up on you. You've had a rough year, yeah, but most of it was stuff out of your control. And I don't -- I don't know what tonight was, but we'll figure it out."

Louis pulls back with a gentle smile and resumes cleaning off his arm. Maybe it looks worse than Harry initially thought it did. Maybe his stomach pulls uneasily when he stares at it. So he doesn't, he sets the back of his head on the wall and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. Two. He starts counting. Counting helps. 

"You're not on anything, are you?"

Harry shakes his head. 

"Okay. Just checking." 

A few minutes pass. Harry knows that Louis' done cleaning his arm off and he's waiting for him to give him some sign of life, so Harry counts to fifty and then opens his eyes. He's scared the room is going to be spinning, or the ceiling's going to look like it's moving -- anything that will tell him that whatever episode he had earlier isn't over -- but none of that happens. His head does still feel empty, or many detached altogether, though. 

Louis squeezes his hand. "Do you need someone to talk to? Like a professional? I can call someone."

"I'm okay," Harry whispers, shaking his head. He wants to sit up, to show Louis that that's the truth, and it feels impossible. "Think I just want to shower."

"A bath," Louis amends, and Harry nods. A bath is fine. Standing for that long probably isn't going to happen. 

Louis begins to start the water for him, but Harry takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and stands to do it himself. He doesn't want Louis having to baby him. Not like this, anyway. Louis must understand because he backs off a little, only to come right back when he realizes that Harry wants his help taking off his clothes. He doesn't need it, he just wants it. And he doesn't even have to say a word, Louis just knows. 

Once he's undressed, he gets in the bath, a hand of Louis' steadying him. The water is warm, and it feels nice for a few seconds until he realizes that Louis' not going to join him. 

"Come on," Harry says, scooting forward so there's enough room for Louis to sit behind him. Louis looks wary, and Harry smiles tiredly at him. "I'm okay. And I'm not asking for sex, I just want you in here with me."

That seems to make Louis feel better, because he nods and strips and gets in behind Harry. Harry's too tall for this bath, but it's okay. He likes having to curl in on himself a bit, to have an excuse to invite himself into Louis' space. Louis holds him and works on getting Harry's hair wet quietly, even though Harry doesn't really feel like washing it right now. 

When he stops doing that, stops focusing on what Louis' doing and what he's feeling, it's like he loses his grip on what's happening around him. He closes his eyes, and he swears he won't be sitting in this bath tub if he were to open them back up. But with his eyes closed, he's in the dark. And he doesn't like that, so he grabs one of Louis' hands and places it firm on his stomach, trying to keep himself grounded. 

"How are you feeling?" Louis asks, some time later. Harry doesn't know how long they've been sitting here. Couldn't guess if he tried. "Don't feel like you have to lie, or anything. No matter what it is, we'll figure it out."

A few different answers roll around his head. Spaced out, detached, crazy, his arm hurts. "So stupid," is what he settles on. 

"Nothing to feel stupid about, love. How do you _feel,_ though?"

Harry slowly opens his eyes. He's still in the bathtub, still has Louis right behind him. "Okay," he says. "I don't feel like myself, but I don't. . . I'm not sad. I don't feel much of anything."

Louis' quiet for a while before asking, "Have you ever felt like this before?"

His first instinct is to say no. Because he's pretty sure that if he felt this way before, he'd remember. But then he thinks about it, and maybe he has. Maybe he has a lot. There's a ton of times that he remembers feeling so out of it like this. It's not even that extreme; he's not bursting at the seams with anger or sadness, it's quieter than that. 

"I think so," he answers. 

"When?"

"University," he says, closing his eyes again. He'd shut down a lot and figured that was normal, to an extent. All uni students looked like how he felt. "And whenever my dad hurt me really badly, when you weren't there, I -- yeah. Afterwards, I would feel like this."

Louis makes a small noise and that's it. He keeps stroking his hand over Harry's stomach, the water sloshing around them sounding distant. 

They get out of the bath eventually, and once they've dried off and dressed, Harry wants to go lie down in bed, but Louis asks him to come eat something. Harry does, he has some leftover salad as Louis talks to him quietly. He stands behind him, stroking the back of Harry's neck, saying the most random things, and it makes Harry feel a lot better. He feels safe like this, and he's pretty sure what freaked him out so badly earlier is that he didn't feel safe anymore. 

Or maybe it was something else. Who knows. 

After he's done eating, he says he wants to go to bed, and Louis asks him to stay awake a little longer so he can play with Dwight. And he likes playing with Dwight, and he wants to make Louis feel better, so he agrees. He sits on the living room floor with one of the cat's toys, and Louis sits behind him, rubbing his back and continuing to talk about not much of anything. 

He feels undeniably better once Louis pats his back and says he can get some sleep now, if he wants. It's so odd that Louis knows what he knows better than Harry does. For the longest time, Harry felt like nobody understood him, and now he has doctors and a boyfriend and a best friend that's leaving him that do. 

He feels asleep quickly, laying in between Louis' legs. He sleeps like a log for a long time, and he wakes to Louis talking to someone on the phone in the living room, even though he's being quiet about it. Harry doesn't want to eavesdrop, until he does, and that's when he hears his name one too many times. 

Slowly, he gets out of bed and makes his way to the door. The only reason why he gets away with listening without being caught is because the door is already cracked open, and Dwight's not here to meow at him, which would tell Louis that he was waking up. 

"I was thinking about it last night," Louis says. "I thought maybe he was just stressed from everything that happened recently and it was too much, and then I thought that he might have an underlying issue we don't know about, and then," he sighs. "And then I thought the obvious: he's scared about you leaving."

So he's talking to Taylor. 

"And I thought, like, of course he is. You're his best mate, and he loves the fuck out of you, and he's obsessed with that baby growing in you. Of course he's going to be sad you're leaving. And, like. I think that's all true, but I also think there's more to it?" He pauses and then says, "Both times in his life that someone really important to him up and left, he went through absolute hell because of it."

For a moment, Harry thinks he's talking about Nick and Oli. Just for a moment, because then he realizes that Louis is right. 

"Gemma moving out got him hit worse than normal," Louis explains, sounding choked. "His dad completely ripped into him whenever he could, and Harry couldn't do anything about it. And when -- and when I left him, he was completely alone. He didn't have a safe place to escape to anymore. We both know how much me leaving him like that fucked him up, probably worse than the majority of shit he's dealt with. It makes sense that he's scared. He probably thinks everything's about to fall apart as soon as you leave."

What's scary is that none of that went through Harry's brain in the moment, but it's exactly what freaked him out and made him panic like he did. It has to be. And maybe it did go through his head and he either didn't process it or he just doesn't remember, he doesn't know, but it's true. Louis' right. When Louis left, he didn't have anywhere to hide. When Gemma left, he had a lot more things to want to hide from. 

He realizes then, way too late, that they're both supposed to be at work. Louis probably called in, but Harry didn't, so he finds his phone. He expects to see messages from Anna, but there are none. Confused, he goes to his messages with her to see that Louis texted her that he wasn't coming in today last night, probably just after Harry fell asleep. Knowing that's taken care of, he goes back to eavesdropping. 

"No, I'm serious," Louis is saying. "No, Taylor. You can't. Go home. Raise your kid in Tennessee. That's what you want to do, so do it. He wouldn't want you sacrificing that for him. . . No, babe, seriously. He'll be okay. Nothing is going to break when you leave, and he'll realize that, and it'll be okay. . . The only way I think it'll seriously hurt him is that his anxiety will probably be really bad for a few months, but he'll get through it. He always does. He's strong, which is something I don't think he believes."

Harry feels guilty for listening in, then, so he opens the door and heads to the bathroom. Seconds after he shuts the door, he hears Louis say he has to go. Harry goes to the bathroom, and afterwards, when he's washing his hands, he really looks at the scratch marks on his arm for the first time, and they look rough. Louis has bandages over them that Harry peels back, and the skin looks irritated, the marks are all jagged and ugly, and when he presses down gently near one of the worst marks, it hurts way more than he thought it would.

He sighs, presses the bandages back down, and leaves the bathroom. He will be so fucking pissed if any of that scars. 

Louis is gentle with him all morning, and Harry accepts it wholeheartedly until lunch, when he tells Louis that he's really, seriously okay, and that Harry will make this all up to him, and promises that if Louis wants to go into work right now, he'll be okay. Louis listens to him patiently, and once Harry finishes, he shakes his head. 

"There's nothing to make up to me," Louis tells him. "And I'm calling into work tomorrow, too, and I want you to do the same. I think you need a breather, love. Me and you can spend some time together."

Tears rush to make his eyes and throat hot. "I'm okay, Lou. I'm -- really. I'm okay."

"Yeah, I know," Louis whispers, reaching forward to cradle Harry's cheek. "Doesn't mean some time off will hurt. And obviously if you really want to go to work, you can. I just think you need a bit of a break. Maybe we both do."

Harry leans into Louis' hand and closes his eyes. Maybe Louis' right. No, he's definitely right. Time off, even if it's only two days, sounds amazing, but he doesn't want Louis fucking up his career for him. He doesn't even want him to take that chance. 

They stop talking about it then, but later on, when Louis is driving them around town aimlessly and music is playing soft in the background, Harry agrees to take tomorrow off, too. Louis' relieved, and it makes the guilt Harry's been feeling all morning gnaw at his bones harder. 

"Can I ask you a question?" Harry says, glancing out the window. 

Louis nods. 

"If you were ever unhappy with me, and you wanted to break up, would you be too scared to?"

He's been thinking about it this entire ride, and they've been in the car for almost an hour now. Sometimes, his dad would say he would kill himself if his mum ever left, and maybe Harry's never said that, but that doesn't mean Louis doesn't think that. Louis might stay with him long after he's become unhappy in their relationship just because he's scared Harry might hurt himself if Louis left him. That's so unfair. 

Louis' answer is immediate. "I'd never want to break up with you."

"Okay, but what if you did? In a week from now, or a few months, or years -- whatever it might be, what if you wanted to? Could you? Or have I made you feel trapped in this relationship?"

Louis' quiet for a long time. Too long. It makes Harry's stomach churn, because there's no way Louis' going to promise him that he'd have no problem breaking up with Harry after all this silence. Louis' too scared to leave him, and that makes Harry feel hurt and absolutely mental and so, so manipulative, even though he's never done anything intentionally. 

"Lou," he says after it's been too long. His voice cracks. "Please be honest with me."

Louis sighs loudly and he's silent for another minute or so before he shrugs. "I don't know what I'd do," he says quietly. "I really don't. I think -- I _know_ that if I was unhappy, I'd do something about it, but. I don't think I'd move out, if I broke up with you. I think I'd stay with you, as a friend or whatever. To make sure that you were okay. I think I'd have to do that. Because if for whatever crazy reason I did want to break up with you, I know I'd never want to lose you as a friend, so -- yeah. I don't know. But you most certainly haven't made me feel trapped in being with you, or anything. I want to be here, with you."

" _Why?_ "

"Because I love you," Louis says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. There is nothing easy about loving Harry. "Because we fought too hard for too long to be here to throw it away. And all that shit you said about creating our world, you remember that? I want that. I'll always want that. And I don't -- " he sighs. "I know you still think poorly about yourself. I know you probably think you don't deserve to be loved, but I can honestly say that you are the most deserving person of it that I know. I'll never get tired of you, even if sometimes I get a little overwhelmed. And even though I would rather you have good days all the time, I still am every bit in love with you on the bad ones. Even on the bad ones, you're still my best friend, and you're still the love of my life, and you're still Harry. And it's still a day I get to spend with you, and that's all I want."

Harry doesn't say anything, not for the lack of wanting to, but because he's crying and trying to keep it quiet. He wishes Louis would write that down for him, so in the times that none of that feels true, he'll know it is. 

"I think we need to start working on trying to keep good days good," Louis says. "You've had a rough year, and we've both seen how it's impacted you, so we need to try to limit the bad days the best we can. Of course you'll still have them, of course you will, and I won't be mad or disappointed or anything like that. I want you to be happy, that's it."

Harry shakily reaches over to grab Louis' hand, and he squeezes it tight. Words don't seem possible right now, but Louis has shown him that words aren't everything. 

Louis squeezes his hand back. "I love you, too."

Harry leans back against the seat, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He'll be okay. _They'll_ be okay. And he knew that, he did, but sometimes it feels like he has to be reminded of it. 

-

-

Louis was right: as soon as Taylor's gone, Harry's anxiety shoots up to levels he's pretty sure it's never been before. It's not even like he's having panic attacks more often, it's just that his head constantly feels like it's spinning and he's more jumpy than normal and it feels like he's constantly trying to keep up, even when he already is. They talk every morning on the phone until they don't, until Harry starts to really dread those talks because he's petrified that it's going to be the last time they do this. She puts the ball in Harry's court, then, and he has the option to call her whenever. She doesn't call him very often, not because she doesn't want to, but because Harry likes it better this way. 

All of this takes place during the weeks they're working out the final details of buying the house and during moving, and it causes a little bit of friction between Louis and Harry. Louis' stressed about the move, and he has to pick up Harry's slack. It's not even like Harry doesn't help, he does, it's just that Louis sometimes feels like things would be done quicker if Harry would let him do it himself. 

They don't fight, not really, but there's definitely a bit of tension between them until they're settled in their new home. Louis relaxes, and Harry's still anxious as ever, but it's easier to manage when Louis isn't feeling some of it himself at the same time. 

Harry pukes when he gets the text that Taylor's going into labor. It's the scariest twelve fucking hours Harry has ever sat through, not knowing what was going on and living through delayed updates from her mum. He paces the flat for hours, and Louis can't get him to go to sleep even for a few minutes, something Harry is so grateful for when he gets the text that Taylor's facing some post-labor complications. She lost too much blood, apparently, and if Harry had to wake up to that news, he would have probably done something worse than puking. 

She's fine, though. So is the baby. She calls her Emily, and Harry thinks it's the most beautiful word he's ever heard even though they're are thousands of people named Emily. This one is special. 

He meets her via FaceTime barely an hour after Taylor's recovered. She's exhausted and she's hurting and the baby is a bit fussy, but Taylor is determined to introduce her to Harry as soon as possible. He tells her repeatedly that it's okay, that she can rest and he'll see her more tomorrow, but Taylor says sternly (well, as sternly as someone who just went through a twelve hour labor can be) that she's doing this for Emily, not Harry. 

Taylor ends up falling asleep while Harry's still on the phone, and Harry tells her mum that it's okay, that he just wants to watch Emily for a little while. It's probably weird, but every time her little nose twitches or her mouth moves slightly or her fingers curl, the joy he feels is unimaginable. 

She is absolutely precious, and becomes one of the lights of Harry's life immediately.

Harry's mental health gradually becomes steady again. Really gradually, because it takes about a year for him to feel like he's back to where he was before all this. It's alright, though. He gets there. That's what matters. Kind of. Maybe. He doesn't really know.

He starts talking to Gemma a bit again, and he visits her at Christmas like normal. Natalie doesn't know him, and she's become shy so she doesn't really like him around. That stings, and it hurts even more knowing that the same thing is probably going to happen with Emily eventually. He visits his mum, too, and like normal, they tip-toe around each other, pretend like everything's fine, and talk politely even though both of them undoubtedly are thinking very, very un-polite things about one another. It's okay. Harry accepted their relationship a long time ago. 

They adopt their second cat, a skittish brindle cat called Patch, a few months after Christmas. He doesn't warm up to them or Dwight quickly, and getting him adapted to their family takes a lot of patience and time. Patch is a sweetheart, but he rarely comes out of his bed long enough to show that. It works out, though. He gets used to them. And when he does, Patch becomes incredibly important to Harry. Becomes one of the aspects of his life he's most proud of, which is probably dramatic because he's a cat, but it's true. It is. 

Years pass in the form of good and bad days. Somewhere in the middle, Louis proposes to him on the patio, and Harry says yes without even thinking about it. They have a small wedding in their backyard, one that Harry didn't really want but didn't dare say that because Louis did. Emily and Taylor come. So do Natalie, Steven and Gemma. So does his mum, and all of Louis' family. Niall. Liam. Nick. Anna. Zayn. A few others. It was nice, and it's definitely not something he regrets. 

His meds get rearranged a few times. Dr. Sheldon starts working with him on his infrequent dissociation, when he finally does admit to that to her. Nick and him talk occasionally. Oli tries to poke his back in a time or two, something that Harry avoids like the plague. Everything's mostly mundane for a while, and then Louis talks kids. Harry isn't ready for them when he tells Louis he is, something they both pay the price of when they have a wailing newborn at home and Harry's freaking out about it more than not. Hearing her cry makes him anxious as all hell, and sometimes he's too scared to hold her or feed her because he's scared to hurt her, even though he would have fed her the night before and it went fine. 

Louis' an amazing father from day one. It's not as easy to say that about Harry. He does his absolute best, though, and it turns out to be enough. _He_ turns out to be enough. Because no matter what he does, no matter how worried he is, he has a daughter that loves him like he hung the moon and a husband who might as well have, and that doesn't change. 

Taylor moves back to London with Emily when she's six, and she makes some stupid joke about being too worried about the American schools, and Harry gets to raise his daughter alongside hers, and it means everything to him. 

Late at night, when he's sitting with his daughter, he thinks. About everything. About how it's crazy that the family he got wasn't the one he deserved, and how he made one that he did. Louis, Erin, Taylor, Emily -- they are his family. He loves his sister and niece and mum to death, and they're part of his family, too, it's just. The four of them are the center of it all, of him, and they love him in ways that Harry didn't know he could be loved in for a long time. Without them, Harry would have never known how to love, or how to be loved, or have anything to love at all. Without them, he wouldn't be here. And when Erin smiles up at him, or Louis rolls over in bed and cuddles into him while he's asleep, or Emily FaceTimes him from Taylor's phone to tell him all about a dream she had, he knows that it's where he belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you want :D hearing your thoughts means a lot to me! xx


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